JBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


P 


GUSTAF   FRODING 

Selected  Poems 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

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MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


GUSTAF   ERODING 

Selected  Poems 


TRANSLATED   FROM  THE   SWEDISH 
WITH    AN   INTRODUCTION 


BY 


CHARLES  WHARTON   STORK 

A.M.,  PH.D. 

AUTHOR  OF    "  SEA  AND  BAY," 
"  TH1  QJJEXN  OF  ORPLEDE,"  ITC. 


ff  otfe 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1916 

All  rights  rt served 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  March,  1916. 


NortoooB 

J.  B.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 
GEORGE   LYMAN   KITTREDGE 

PREEMINENT  SCHOLAR 

AND 
INTERPRETER  OF  LITERATURE 


THE  translations  in  this  volume  have  been 
favorably  passed  upon  by  the  PUBLICATION  COM- 
MITTEE OF  THE  AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN  FOUN- 
DATION. Several  of  the  poems  have  appeared  in 
the  American-Scandinavian  Review,  and  are  here 
reproduced  with  the  courteous  permission  of  the 
FOUNDATION. 


INTRODUCTION 

ONE  of  the  most  marked  tendencies  in  re- 
cent European  literature  has  been  the  sudden  rise 
and  growth  of  Scandinavian  influence.  Ibsen, 
Bjornsen  and  Strindberg  created  new  types  of 
the  drama,  Ellen  Key  advanced  the  cause  of 
feminism,  and  Selma  Lagerlof  is  now  generally 
recognized  as  one  of  the  greatest  living  nov- 
elists. And  yet,  despite  all  this,  the  richest  and 
most  characteristic  field  of  Scandinavian  letters 
has  been  hitherto  unexplored.  The  Northmen 
themselves,  whether  Norwegians,  Danes  or 
Swedes,  pride  themselves  most  on  their  lyric 
poetry,  in  which  the  Swedish  Muse  is  by  far 
the  most  eminent.  Of  this  very  little  is  known 
in  English,  the  only  Swedish  poets  who  have  been 
translated  at  all  extensively  being  Runeberg  and 
Lvii 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Tegner,  whose  "Frithiof's  Saga"  is  rather  epic 
than  lyric. 

The  variety  and  power  of  the  Swedish  lyric 
is  far  too  great  to  be  more  than  touched  on  here. 
It  had  its  roots  in  the  folk-songs,  began  to  develop 
in  the  first  half  of  the  Seventeenth  Century  and 
assumed  more  conscious  artistic  form  about 
1750.  At  first  it  was  largely  influenced  by  Ger- 
man, Italian  and  French  models,  later  to  some 
degree  by  the  English  Romantic  Movement, 
and  again  by  the  Romanticism  of  Germany. 
The  greatest  of  the  early  names  is  that  of  Karl 
Mikael  Bellman,  a  consummate  master  of  verse- 
form.  After  him  important  poets  come  thick 
and  fast  through  the  Nineteenth  Century,  reach- 
ing a  climax  in  the  early  part  of  the  present 
generation  with  such  men  as  Snoilsky  and  Froding. 
There  has,  however,  been  hardly  any  decline 
since  then,  as  the  number  of  notable  living  poets 
attests;  among  others  Daniel  Fallstrom,  Erik 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Karlfeldt,  Per  Hallstrom,  and  Verner  von  Heiden- 
stam. 

All  good  poetry  has  the  quality  of  universality. 
We  therefore  find  the  Swedish  lyric  dealing  with 
all  the  great  human  emotions;  with  religion, 
with  love,  with  the  beauty  of  nature,  and  the 
rest  of  the  gamut.  If  we  sought  to  define  the 
peculiarly  national  characteristics  of  the  Swedish 
lyric,  we  might  say  that  they  were :  first,  a 
remarkable  closeness  to  the  earth,  reminding 
one  rather  of  primitive  than  of  modern  poetry; 
and  secondly,  on  the  other  side,  a  purely  vision- 
ary quality,  a  sort  of  clairvoyance  in  the  realm 
of  the  imagination.  These  two  opposed  faculties 
tend  to  give  the  remarkable  contrast  with  which 
every  reader  will  be  struck.  There  is  also  a 
considerable  classic  tinge  in  some  poets,  and  a 
strong  injection  of  modern  thought  and  philos- 
ophy in  others.  Kindliness  and  trenchant 
humor  very  frequently  relieve  the  tension  of 


x  INTRODUCTION 

too  insistent  seriousness.  In  form  the  Swede 
adheres  to  regular  metres  and  stanzaic  arrange- 
ments, which  he  varies  with  infinite  skill. 

In  the  long  array  of  distinguished  Swedish  poets 
the  most  striking  and  probably  the  greatest  figure 
is  that  of  Gustaf  Eroding.  He  is  at  least  the 
most  powerful,  the  most  popular  and  the  most 
finely  imaginative.  He  unites  the  qualities 
already  mentioned  with  remarkable  breadth  of 
appeal,  intellectual  vigor,  and  a  compactness 
of  style  that  makes  every  phrase  significant.  In 
his  pictures  of  peasant  life  he  reminds  one  most 
of  Burns,  some  of  whose  songs  he  translated,  but 
his  ironic  humor  is  more  like  that  of  Heine. 
The  visionary  gift  appears  in  poems  of  almost 
Shelleyan  ideal  beauty,  and  his  power  of  dramatic 
narrative  has  a  virility  which  makes  the  work  of 
Kipling  seem  journalistic.  Above  all  in  every 
line  we  are  impressed  by  his  complete  originality, 
his  absolute  truth  to  nature  and  his  own  emotions. 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

Eroding  was  born  in  1860  near  Karlstad  in 
the  province  of  Vermland,  an  inland  region 
in  the  southern  part  of  Sweden.  His  youth  was 
passed  in  rather  humble  circumstances,  as  we 
may  judge  from  his  poems  "Homecoming'* 
and  "An  Old  Room."  He  thus  lived  very 
close  to  the  common  people  whom  he  was  to 
interpret.  In  1880-83  ne  studied  at  the  Univer- 
sity of  Upsala,  but  he  later  returned  to  his  native 
Vermland  and  worked  on  a  newspaper.  His 
first  volume  of  lyrics,  which  appeared  in  1891, 
gained  him  at  once  a  wide  popularity,  and  all 
of  his  other  important  works  appeared  in  the 
years  immediately  following,  up  to  1897.  Un- 
fortunately his  resemblance  to  Burns  extended 
to  his  life  as  well  as  to  his  poetry,  and  the  rest 
of  his  career  was  made  unproductive  and  miserable 
by  dissipation.  He  died  at  Stockholm  in  1911. 

Let  us  quickly  turn  from  this  chronicle  of  ap- 
parent failure  to  look  at  Eroding's  achievement. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

His  people,  recognizing  his  marvellous  portrayal 
of  their  life  and  character,  idolized  him  almost 
from  the  first,  and  his  funeral  was  an  occasion 
of  universal  grief  and  of  honors  equal  to  those 
paid  to  royalty.  In  his  life  he  had  been  a  some- 
what gloomy  and  very  solitary  figure,  for  he  never 
married.  But  he  was  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of 
his  countrymen  as  no  poet  has  been  since  Burns, 
and  his  grave  is  still  kept  covered  with  fresh 
flowers.  Furthermore,  over  30,000  sets  of  his 
completed  poems  have  been  sold  in  a  country  of 
only  five  and  a  half  million  people. 

Deep  human  sympathy  is  perhaps  the  domi- 
nant note  of  Eroding's  poetry ;  in  especial,  sym- 
pathy for  the  erring  and  unfortunate,  of  whom 
he  felt  himself  to  be  one.  His  doctrine  of  universal 
forgiveness  is  touchingly  revealed  in  "A  Poor 
Monk  of  Skara"  and  "Dreams  in  Hades."  With 
splendid  courage  he  presents  the  facts  of  life, 
which  in  his  poetry  are  less  sordid  because  they 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

are  so  thoroughly  humanized.  Who  has  more 
truly  and  boldly  presented  the  problem  of  sex 
than  he  has  in  "Man  and  Woman"?  His  in- 
terest is  rather  in  people  than  in  nature,  though 
his  "Pastoral"  is  a  charming  picture,  and  inci- 
dental scenes  are  always  vividly  rendered.  His 
power  of  immediate  visualization  is  most  marked, 
as  for  instance  in  such  a  purely  objective  sketch 
as  "The  City  Lieutenant."  He  sees  what  he 
imagines  as  clearly  as  if  it  were  physically  before 
him.  Prince  Aladdin  stands  before  us  as  def- 
initely as  does  Hunter  Malm.  Even  so  grim  a 
figure  as  the  "Old  Mountain  Troll"  is  drawn 
understandingly,  and  given  a  half-human  interest. 
Nor  is  Eroding  deficient  in  delicacy.  What 
could  be  prettier  than  "Marauders"  or  the  last 
part  of  "Homecoming"?  What  more  exquisite 
than  the  beauty  of  "There  Should  Have  Been 
Stars"  ?  His  imagination  drifts  easily  across 
from  actual  scenes  to  delightful  fancies,  as  in 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

"The  Ball"  or  "A  Girl  in  the  Eyes."  Like 
nearly  all  northern  poets,  he  has  a  passion  for  the 
languorous  beauty  of  the  Orient,  which  appears 
in  "I  Would  That  I  Were"  and  "A  Dream  of  the 
Orient."  His  irony  is  directed  upon  social  and 
still  more  upon  religious  sham;  Burns'  attacks 
on  the  "unco-guid"  find  their  counterpart  in 
"Our  Dean,"  "The  Prayer-Meeting"  and 
"Pious  Ineptitude,"  not  to  mention  that  shock- 
ing urchin  "Little  Joe- Johnny."  -  Purely  genial 
humor  is  at  its  best  in  "Mountain  Trolls"  and 
the  comic  self-analysis  of  "The  Ball."  We 
find  also  the  gift  of  seeing  universal  significance 
in  a  brief  incident,  such  as  that  of  "See  Where 
the  Dreamer  Comes"  or  "So  Goes  the  World." 
Eroding  may  perhaps  be  accused  of  too  great 
frankness.  This  is  partly  due  to  his  earnestness 
and  penetration,  partly  to  the  tendency  of  the 
age.  The  poet  certainly  never  dallies  with 
vice.  If  the  subject  demands  it,  he  strikes  right 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

to  the  heart  of  the  matter  without  prudery  or 
false  modesty.  His  good  taste  prevents  him 
from  dwelling  defiantly  on  details  as  Whitman 
is  inclined  to  do.  No  one  who  admires  Kip- 
ling's "Gunga  Din,"  "Mandalay,"  and  "The 
Mary  Gloster"  need  fear  any  undue  shock  to  his 
or  her  sensibilities  from  the  Swedish  realist. 

Eroding,  despite  the  variety  of  his  work  which 
has  already  been  indicated,  seldom  writes  any- 
thing that  can  be  called  a  song.  There  is  al- 
most always  a  story  behind  any  given  poem, 
even  though  the  outlines  are  as  indefinite  as  in 
the  wonderful  lines  of  "Sigh,  Sigh,  Rushes!" 
An  exception  to  this  is  the  "Love  Song,"  in 
which  the  poet  shows  that  his  ideal  conception  of 
woman  was  not  lost  in  the  rough  ways  where  he 
was  driven  to  wander.  Again,  Eroding  never  uses 
the  simple,  impersonal  narrative  method  of  the 
ballad ;  like  Browning  he  takes  a  personal  point 
of  view,  thus  giving  the  reader  not  only  the  story 
but  the  character  of  the  teller. 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

We  have  noted  that  Froding  is  somewhat 
limited  in  his  poetic  treatment.  In  form,  how- 
ever, he  shows  astonishing  command  and  variety. 
He  is,  as  Dr.  Leach  remarks  in  his  valuable 
book  "Scandinavia  of  the  Scandinavians,"  a 
marvellous  metrician.  Only  once  does  he  ap- 
proach vers  libre;  strangely  enough,  in  the  first 
piece  of  his  collected  poems,  "A  Song  of  Songs," 
in  which  he  gracefully  transfers  the  style  of  the 
Bible  to  the  mountain  atmosphere  of  Vermland. 
Otherwise  he  keeps  to  regular  metre  and  rhyme. 
His  favorite  type  of  verse  is  one  of  a  rather  in- 
formal kind,  with  well-marked  accents  and  fre- 
quent extra  syllables,  which  gives  the  reader  an 
impression  of  remarkable  directness.  There  seems 
to  be  no  end  to  the  stanzaic  arrangements  at 
his  disposal,  in  all  of  which  he  is  equally  at 
home.  If  a  poem  runs  to  a  couple  of  hundred 
lines,  he  will  have  six  or  eight  different  forms  of 
verse,  each  fitted  to  the  particular  mood  it  is 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

meant  to  convey.  Thus  "The  Ball"  begins  in- 
formally, runs  into  a  rapid  metre  to  indicate 
confusion  and  tumult,  introduces  the  heroine 
with  a  smooth  gliding  measure,  etc.,  etc.  On  the 
whole,  considering  his  wealth  of  substance,  power 
of  treatment  and  mastery  of  form,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  any  European  lyrist  since  Goethe, 
Hugo  excepted,  has  outrivaled  Gustaf  Eroding. 

Nothing  has  been  said  as  yet  with  regard  to 
the  Swedish  language.  Longfellow  describes  it 
as  "soft  and  musical,  with  an  accent  like  the 
lowland  Scotch."  Far  from  being  harsh,  as 
northern  languages  are  supposed  to  be,  Swedish 
has  a  rich,  one  might  almost  say  creamy,  quality, 
and  the  vowel  sounds  are  unusually  pure  and 
beautiful.  Besides  its  musical  possibilities, 
Swedish  has,  partly  by  recent  borrowing  from 
French  and  German,  an  ample  vocabulary  for 
poetic  expression.  Besides  using  both  melody 
and  vocabulary  to  the  full,  Froding  often  resorts 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

to  dialect,  much  as  Burns  does,  for  forceful  and 
humorous  effects.  This  quality  has  been  re- 
produced in  English  only  to  a  modified  extent. 
The  difficulties  of  translating  Eroding  will  by 
this  time  be  apparent  to  any  reader  of  the  intro- 
duction. Many  Swedes  have  asserted  that  the 
Vermland  poems  never  could  be  rendered  into 
English,  though  some  readers  of  the  following 
attempts  have  been  so  kind  as  to  change  their 
previous  opinion.  The  present  translator  has 
endeavored  first  to  live  himself  into  the  originals, 
and  then  to  reproduce  them  in  English  as  if  he  were 
writing  them  for  the  first  time.  He  has  above 
all  aimed  at  producing  vital  English  poetry; 
along  with  that  he  has  tried  to  be  as  faithful 
to  detail  as  his  primary  purpose  would  allow. 
It  is  obviously  impossible  to  avoid  "translator's 
English"  and  at  the  same  time  be  always  literal. 
The  best  translation  in  English  is  probably  Fitz- 
gerald's "  Rubaiyat,"  which  is  much  freer  than  the 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

versions  of  Eroding  here  submitted.  The  original 
metres  have  been  kept  whenever  they  could  be 
made  to  seem  native  in  English;  in  a  few  cases 
equivalent  metres  have  been  substituted,  but 
the  change  in  such  cases  has  always  been  slight. 
Considerable  latitude  has,  however,  been  used  in 
the  rendering  of  proper  names.  How  successful 
the  following  attempts  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the 
original  have  been,  the  reader  will  judge. 

The  translator  wishes  to  express  his  cordial 
thanks  to  Dr.  Amandus  Johnson,  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Pennsylvania;  to  Dr.  Henry  Goddard 
Leach,  of  the  American  Scandinavian  Foundation ; 
and  to  Miss  Greta  Linder  of  Stockholm,  for  their 
encouragement  and  assistance. 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 
UNIVERSITY  OF  PENNSYLVANIA 


CONTENTS 

NOTE.  The  poems  are  arranged  according  to  their  order  in 
the  two  volumes  of  Eroding  s  SAMLADE  DIKTER,  ALBERT  BON- 
NIER, STOCKHOLM,  1901.  "A  Love-Song,"  the  only  piece  not 
from  these  volumes,  is  placed  at  the  end.  In  cases  where  the 
translation  of  the  title  is  so  free  as  possibly  to  be  obscure,  the 
Swedish  title  is  inserted  in  parenthesis. 


I.  VERMLAND   POEMS 

A  SONG-OF-SONGS           . 3 

INDIANS          .        .        .        ...       .        .        .  8 

PASTORAL  (VALLARELAT)        n 

THE  WOOD  SPRITE 13 

OUR  DEAN     .........  15 

MATRIMONIAL  QUERIES 18 

"THEY  DANCED  BY  THE  ROADSIDE"     ....  20 

THE  RIGHTS  OF  A  HARE 23 

MOUNTAIN  TROLLS 24 

THE  OLD  MOUNTAIN  TROLL 29 

THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM 32 

LITTLE  JOE-JOHNNY  (LELLE  KARL-JOHAN)            .        .  41 

MAIDENS'  GLANCES 43 

THREE  CAROLLING  GIRLS      .......  45 

AN  OLD  ROOM       .        .        .        .  .        .        -47 

HOMECOMING  (STROVTAc  i  HEMBYGDEN)       .        .        .51 
xxi 


xxii  CONTENTS 

II.   FROM  THE  CITY,  AND  MISCEL- 
LANEOUS 

THE  BALL 59 

THE  CITY  LIEUTENANT 77 

POET  WENNERBOM 79 

A  SPRING-TIME  SWEETHEART 82 

MARAUDERS            84 

THE  KING'S  MISTRESS,  INCLUDING, 

I.   INGALILL 91 

II.  "SIGH,  SIGH,  RUSHES  I"         ....  92 

A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA 94 

SONGS  OF  KING  ERIC,  INCLUDING, 

I.  To  KARIN,  AFTER  SHE  HAD  DANCED     .        .  100 

II.  To  KARIN,  IN  PRISON 101 

III.  KING  ERIC'S  LAST  SONG        .        .        .        .103 

WINTER  NIGHT 104 

"I  WOULD  THAT  I  WERE — " 106 

FYLGIA           108 

MAN  AND  WOMAN no 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT 117 

DREAMS  IN  HADES 126 

"THERE  SHOULD  HAVE  BEEN  STARS — "     .        .        .  136 

"SEE  WHERE  THE  DREAMER  COMES"          .        .        .  140 

PRINCE  ALADDIN  OF  THE  LAMP 141 

So  GOES  THE  WORLD  (VARLDENS  GANG)      .        .        .  144 

IDEALISM  AND  REALISM 145 

A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES            146 

THE  PRAYER-MEETING  (I  BONHUSET)           .        .        .  162 

Pious  INEPTITUDE  (BRISTANDE  PIETET)        .        .        .  164 

A  LOVE-SONG 165 

NOTES 167 


VERMLAND   POEMS 


A  SONG-OF-SONGS 

My  beloved  is  like  unto  a  slender  fir-tree, 

Like  unto  a  singing  water-brook, 

And  like  unto  a  budding  rose 

When  the  dew  falleth  at  morning-tide. 

And  her  beauty's  might  is  as  it  were  a  great 

army, 

Which  overthroweth  its  enemies 
With  a  thunderous  noise,  and  rusheth  forward 
And  crieth  aloud:    "Who  can  resist  me?" 

Say  unto  me,  ye  daughters  of  Vermland, 

Ye  who  tend  flocks  in  the  mountains, 

Or  sit  by  the  roadside 

Conversing  together, 

Have  ye  seen  my  beloved, 

Have  ye  seen  whether  my  budding  rose 

Went  by  this  way? 

3 


4  SELECTED   POEMS 

For  behold !  her  going  is  as  a  dance  over  the 

meadows, 
Yea,    as   a   dance   of  the   daughter  of  a  great 

king; 

And  her  voice  is  as  a  sweet  sound, 
Yea,    as    the    sound    of    merry    music    in    the 

mountains ; 

And  the  delight  of  her  countenance 
Is  as  the  sun  upon  the  lakes,  — 
Upon  the  beautiful  lakes  in  the  valleys. 

I  came  unto  the  dwelling  of  my  beloved 

When  evening  was  cool  and  the  shadows  were 
lengthening, 

And  the  birches  of  my  beloved's  father  stood 
up  green, 

And  the  scent  of  the  birches  was  more  fragrant 
than  myrrh, 

Than  nard  and  all  the  powders  of  the  apothe- 
cary. 


A  SONG-OF-SONGS  5 

See!    my  beloved  wandereth  in  the  garden 
And   she   concealeth   herself  from   the   sight   of 

mine  eyes 

Beneath  bushes  of  gooseberry  and  currant. 
Like  unto  a  young  lion  she  lieth  in  wait, 
Like  a  bold  band  of  robbers  in  ambush, 
Taking  counsel  in  the  naughtiness  of  her  soul 
How  she  may  surprise  him  whom  she  loveth, 
To  the  end  that  she  may  devour  him 
With  her  mouth  —  which  is  not  very  large  — 
And  with  her  lips,  which  are  red  as  good  wine. 

Like    unto    a    storm    she    came    out    from    the 

bushes, 
Yea,  like  unto  a  mighty  storm  with  wind  and 

rain; 

When  the  hailstones  are  as  the  falling  of  lilies, 
And  the  rain  is  as  a  rain  of  roses, 
And  the  wind  is  as  a  loud  laughter 
And  the  echo  of  many  cymbals. 


6  SELECTED   POEMS 

And  she  fell  upon  me  and  took  me  captive 

To  be  her  prisoner  of  war  and  her  slave, 

And   she  pronounced  to  me  the  wrath  of  her 

lips 

And  gave  forth  a  judgment  and  said : 
"Thou  art  welcome  to  my  father's  dwelling, 
Behold !    thou    art    esteemed    most    dear    and 

wholly  welcome." 

And  she  brought  me  forth  from  the  pantry 
The  juice  of  raspberries  from  the  garden, 
And  precious  pastry  and  many  cakes 
And  we  ate  thereof  and  talked  together  unto 
the  going-down  of  the  sun. 

But  alas !  many  days  have  gone  by 

Since  I  looked  upon  the  eyes  of  my  beloved, 

And    my    thoughts    go    astray    upon    forgotten 

by-paths, 
Because  my  beloved  is  before  all  others 


A  SONG-OF-SONGS  7 

On  this  land, 

Because  she  is  like  unto  a  young  fir-tree, 

And  unto  a  singing  water-brook, 

And  unto  the  sunlight  upon  the  lakes,  — 

Upon  the  beautiful  lakes  in  the  valleys. 

Say  unto  me,  ye  daughters  of  Vermland, 

Ye  who  tend  sheep  and  cattle  in  the  mountains ; 

Or  converse  together  by  the  roadside, 

Have  ye  beheld  her  whom  my  soul  loveth, 

Have  ye  seen  whether  my  beloved 

Went  by  this  way  ? 


INDIANS 

Come,    don't   try   your   haughty   ways   on    me 

here, 

Leave  them  till  the  next  ball,  anyway! 
We're  outdoors  now  and  it's  good  to  be  here, 
Soft  the  moss  and  cool  the  shade  to-day. 

Let  my  head  rest  on  your  knees,  my  darling, 
And  be  happy  for  an  hour  —  so ! 
We've  enough  of  quarreling  and  snarling; 
Life's  a  w  »ary  uphill  road  to  go. 

I  will  be  a  savage,  —  that's  the  notion !  — 
Play  the  tyrant  as  a  savage  can; 
You  shall  follow  at  the  slightest  motion, 
I  will  be  a  rude  primeval  man. 

I'll  complain  for  any  cause  whatever, 
Growl  at  meals  no  matter  what  you  do: 
8 


INDIANS  9 

"Call  that  a  veal  cutlet?  —  Well,  that's  clever! 
Look,  you  cat,  you've  burnt  the  spinach,  too." 

There'll  be  time  enough,  sweetheart,  to  see  to 
Woman's  rights  and  all  such  petty  strife. 
Here  the  woods  are  free.     Let  us  be  free,  too, 
From  the  strenuous  pedantry  of  life! 

Let's  pretend  we  live  here  in  the  forest, 
Play  we're  Indians  going  out  to  war, 
For  our  wigwam  we  can  take  the  nearest 
Barn,  and  I'll  of  course  be  sagamore. 

Fierce  or  lazy  is  my  disposition, 
And  my  name  is  Miantonimah. 
You  shall  come  on  every  expedition, 
Pale  white  maiden  Tith-oh-Wah-ta-Wah. 

When  with  blood  my  tomahawk  is  sated, 
Comfortably  on  my  back  I'll  lie,     . 


io  SELECTED  POEMS 

With  my  rage  for  murder  all  abated 
Take  my  ease  or  maybe  catch  a  fly. 

Tith-oh-Wah-ta-Wah  must  go  a-trudging 
After  mice  and  worms  to  fill  my  maw, 
She  must  fetch  and  carry,  still  be  drudging, 
Poor,  poor  little  Tith-oh-Wah-ta-Wah ! 

She  will  spread  the  meal  for  me  to  eat,  then, 
With  a  giant  fern  for  table-mat, 
And  for  thanks  beside  the  sachem's  feet,  then, 
She  may  sit  and  watch  him,  like  a  cat. 

When  I've  eaten  of  the  food  provided 
By  the  Mighty  Spirit,  Manitou, 
Then  —  as  now  —  my  head  shall  be  confided 
To  your  knees;    my  peaceful  pillow,  you. 

Come,  don't  pull  my  hair  out,  I  must  scold  you, 
You  disgrace  me,  Indian  maiden  wild. 
It's  all  true,  —  the  chief  of  whom  I  told  you 
And  his  wife,  —  I  read  it  when  a  child. 


PASTORAL 

Heard    you    ne'er    cowbells,    heard    you    ne'er 

singing 

Stray  down  the  meadow  at  evening  fall  ? 
Cows  low  their  answer  and  quicken  the  swinging 
Stride  of  their  pace  at  the  milk-maid's  call. 

O'er  heath  and  moorland  the  shrill  notes  flow: 

"Co',  Lily  — co',  Lily  — co',  Lily  —  co'I" 

Echoes,  awakening,  northward  go, 

Cliffs  all  replying 

Softly  the  dying 

"Co',  Lily  — co',  Lily  — co'!" 

Falls  now,  now  rises  the  cowbells*  vibration 
Till  all  is  hushed  in  the  valley  beneath, 
Still  are  the  woods,  half-asleep  in  their  station, 
ii 


12  SELECTED  POEMS 

Lastly  the  wandering 
Call  goes  meandering 
From  near  to  far  over  moorland  and  heath. 

Night    comes    apace    with    the    sun's    fading 

glimmer, 

See  on  the  lake  how  the  vapor  trails! 
Shades  grow  more  solid,  and  longer  and  dimmer, 
Quickly  the  dark  o'er  the  forest  prevails. 

Spruces  and  pine-trees  are  slumbering  in  shadow, 
Duller  the  rush  of  the  cataract's  play. 
Faintly  the  voices  recede  from  the  meadow, 
Wander  and  scatter  and  die  far  away. 


THE  WOOD  SPRITE 

At  Cedar  Copse,  in  the  neighborhood 
Of  Lumbertown,  in  Gunnerud's  Wood, 
The  wood  sprite  has  her  haunt. 
Go  see  her,  if  you  want ! 

She  lures  all  men-folk  and  drives  them  mad, 
For  not  long  ago  Farmer  Vickbom's  lad 
Saw  her  at  dusk  of  day 
When  going  by  that  way. 

She  was  clad  as  fine  as  a  holiday  priest 
With  a  garland  of  fern  and  a  shiny  vest, 
And  a  spruce-twig  skirt  to  her  knees 
That  was  fragrant  as  orchises. 

It  scared  him  to  see  her  twist  about 
Like  a  sapling  pine-tree  in  and  out, 
13 


14  SELECTED  POEMS 

For  she  was  as  quick  and  lithe 

As  a  snake  that  squirms  on  a  scythe. 

She  ran  like  a  roebuck  with  lynx-cat  bounds, 
Or  a  witch  or  a  devil  dodging  the  hounds, 
Then  crouched  upon  a  limb 
And  glowered  out  at  him. 

She  scared  the  boy  into  fifty  fits, 
For  a  month  or  more  he  lost  his  wits; 
He  still  acts  foolishly, 
As  any  sane  man  can  see. 


OUR  DEAN 

Our  dean,  if  you  please, 

Is  round  as  a  cheese 

And  has  learned  wicked  ways  are  pleasant; 

He's  vulgar  mayhap, 

But  a  friendly  chap 

Not  ashamed  that  his  pa  was  a  peasant. 

He  lives  as  do  we, 

Finds  that  coffee  and  brandy  agree, 

As  do  we, 

A  bottle  he  never  refuses. 

Lazy  sinner !  — 

As  we  — 

He  loves  dinner  — 

As  we,  — 

But  on  feast-days  his  nature  he  loses. 


16  SELECTED  POEMS 

When  the  priestly  robes  on  his  shoulders  fall, 

The  rest  of  us  feel  uncommonly  small, 

While  the  dean  increases  in  figure; 

For  he  looks  like  a  dean  from  top  to  toe, 

And  a  thundering  fellow  I'd  have  you  know, — 

Few  deans  have  a  parish  bigger. 

I'll  never  forget  in  all  my  days 

How  he  shone  last  time  in  the  glowing  blaze 

Of  general  admiration; 

Poor  sinners  he  ground 

And  mashed  around 

In  the  mortar  of  reprobation, 

Till  he  wept  —  and  no  shame 

In  that !  —  when  he  came 

To  speak  of  hell  and  damnation. 

And  even  as  he  wept,  so  wept  we, 

For  our  flesh  was  sizzling  frightfully 

And  all  our  souls  were  in  jeopardy. 

And  the  high  church  delegates  looked  most  meek 


OUR  DEAN  17 

When  the  dean  faced  about 
And  they  followed  him  out, 
For  the  Council  was  held  in  our  church  that 

week. 

So  you  may  believe 
'Twas  like  a  reprieve 
When  the  dean  with  mild  intonation, 
As  he  made  a  slight  bow, 
Said:    "My  friends,  let  us  now 
Partake  of  a  modest  collation !" 


MATRIMONIAL  QUERIES 

We'll  have  a  harrow  and  we'll  have  a  plough, 
We'll  have  a  horse  that  can  pull  them,  I  vow. 
"Yes,  and  a  garden  for  cabbages,  too." 
Right,  Erik! 
Right,  Maya! 
That's  what  we'll  do. 

We'll  have  a  pig  that  can  eat  up  the  swill, 
Chickens  and  ducks  we  will  have,  so  we  will. 
"Coffee  and  sugar  and  meat  for  our  stew." 
Right,  Erik! 
Right,  Maya! 
That's  what  we'll  do. 

We'll  drive  a  cow  to  our  field,  when  we're  wed. 
"We'll  have  down  pillows  to  lay  on  our  bed, 
18 


MATRIMONIAL  QUERIES  19 

Glasses  and  dishes  of  china  so  blue." 
Right,  Erik! 
Right,  Maya! 
That's  what  we'll  do. 

But,  Maya,  these  things  will  be  hard  to  procure, 

You  are  so  lazy  and  I  am  so  poor, 

The  parish  feeds  me  and  roots  nourish  you. 

Well,  Erik! 

Well,  Maya! 

What  shall  we  do  ? 


"THEY  DANCED  BY  THE  ROADSIDE" 

They  danced  by  the  roadside  on  Saturday  night, 
And  the  laughter  resounded  to  left  and  to  right, 

With  shouts  of  "Hip,  hip!"  and  of  "Hey!" 
Nils  Utterman,  the  fiddler's  daft  young  sprig, 
Sat  there  with  his  bagpipes  and  played  them  a 

jig» 
With  doodely,  doodely,  day! 

There   was    Cottage    Bess,  —  whose    attractions 

are  many, 
She  is   pretty   and   slim,   though   she   hasn't   a 

penny, 

She's  brimful  of  mischief  and  fun. 
There    was    Christie,  —  the    wild,    independent 

young  lassie !  — 

And  Pimple-faced  Biddy,  and  Tilly,  and  Cassie, 
And  rollicking  Meg  o'  the  Run. 
20 


"THEY  DANCED  BY  THE  ROADSIDE"  21 

There  was  Pete  o'  the  Ridge  and  Gus  o*  the 

Rise,  — 

Who  are  nimble  at  tossing  a  girl  to  the  skies 
And  at  catching  her  when  she  comes  down. 
There  was  Phil  o'  the  Croft  and  Nick  o'  the 

Bend, 

And  Pistol  the  Soldier,  and  Journeyman  Lind, 
And  Karl- John  of  Taylortown. 

They  danced  there  as  madly  as  tow  set  afire, 
All  jumping  like  grasshoppers  higher  and  higher, 

And  heel  it  rang  sharp  upon  stone. 
The  coat-tails  they  fluttered,  the  dominos  flew, 
And    pig-tails   were   flapping,    and    skirts   flung 
askew, 

While  the  music  would  whimper  and  drone. 

Then  in  birch  or  in  alder  or  hazel  thicket 
There  was  whispering  light  as  the  chirp  of  a 

cricket 
From  the  shadowy  darkness  near. 


22  SELECTED   POEMS 

Over    stock,    over    stone   there   was    flight    and 

pursuing, 
And  under  green  boughs  there  was  billing  and 

cooing  — 
"If  you  want  me,  then  come  for  me  here!" 

Over  all  lay  the  twinkling,  star-lovely  night; 
In  the  wood-bordered  bay  a  shimmery  light 

Fell  soft  on  the  hurrying  waves. 
A    breeze,    clover-laden,    was    borne    from    the 

meadow, 
And  a  resinous  whiff  from  the  pines  that  o'er- 

shadow 
The  crests  of  the  water-worn  caves. 

A  fox  lent  his  voice  to  the  revellers'  din, 
And  "Oohoo!"  from  Bear  Crag  an  owl  joined  in; 

But  they  heard  not,  they  heeded  not,  they. 
"Oohoo!"  from  Goat  Mountain  the  echo  rang, 
And  for  answer  Nils  Utterman's  bagpipes  sang 

Their  doodely,  doodely,  day! 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  A  HARE 

A  hare  with  perfect  right 

May  nibble,  conscience-free, 

His  cabbage  till  he's  quite 

As  full  as  full  can  be, 

And  live  his  little  life  so  dear,  — 

Supposing  that  no  fox  is  near. 

And  if  a  fox  should  try 
To  make  the  hare  his  prey 
And  cook  him  in  his  den, 
The  hare  may  spring  up  high 
And  nimbly  speed  away 
On  his  hare-legs  again. 
But  this  to  do  he  may  not  dare: 
Call  himself  other  than  a  hare. 


MOUNTAIN  TROLLS 

"Well,  you  may  believe  me  or  may  not  believe 

me; 
But  'twas  this  way  it  was,  and  the  devil  may 

have  me 
If  'twasn't    a   troll-pack   that   caught   me   one 

night. 
We    had    charge    of    a    furnace    in    Westerly 

Moor, 
And  the  night  was  nigh  finished,  the  clock  stood 

at  four, 
When  the  racket  began  and  Peer  jumped  up  in 

fright. 
It  crashed  round  the  peaks  and  it  roared  in  the 

valley 
Like  a    bellowing  ox    in   the  mountains,"   said 

Ole. 

24 


MOUNTAIN  TROLLS  25 

"They    tramped    and    they    stamped    from    all 

points  of  the  compass, 
And  'twas  funny,  but  God !   it  was  trolls  made 

the  rumpus. 
There  were  some  big  as  churches,   and   slowly 

they  filed 
Through  the  trees,  which  resounded  with  thunder 

and  thud; 
There  was  twisting  and  groaning  all  over  the 

wood, 
For  the  firs  were  to  them  but  as   grass   to   a 

child. 

And  Peer  he  crouched  under  the  root  of  a  tree 
And  I  by  a  big  pile  of  charcoal,"  said  he. 

"Like  the  clashing  of  iron  the  noise  of  them 

rang, 
For  they'd  arms  like  steam-hammers,  had  some 

of  the  gang; 
And  some  they  had  fists  like  a  great  iron  casting ; 


26  SELECTED  POEMS 

Some  had  mouths  like  a  mine-shaft,  and  added 

to  that, 
Some  had  thatch  like  the  roof  of  a  shed  for  a 

hat; 

And  some  sent  out  fire  like  a  furnace  a-blasting; 
Some  had   snouts  like  an  iron  steam  crane  in 

their  head,  — 
And  golly!  it  was  a  bit  scary,"  he  said. 

"They  sat  round  the  furnace  and  roasted  huge 

steaks 
Of  pig-iron,  and  made  themselves  broth  out  of 

spikes, 
And   ate  ploughs  as  if  chewing  on  chicken  or 

lamb; 
Then   all   round   the   furnace   the  trolls   began 

dancing 
Till  they  looked  just  like  houses  and  churches 

a-prancing, 
And  it  sounded  like  thunder,  the  rumble  and  slam. 


MOUNTAIN  TROLLS  27 

I've  traveled  a  bit  and  seen  many  a  spree, 
But  I  never  saw  dance   up  to  that  one,"   said 
he. 

"And  as  I  lay  there  like  a  bundle  of  clouts, 
Came  a  troll  up  with  one  of  the  ugliest  snouts 
And  felt  me  and  turned  my  poor  body  around. 
'Look  sharp  here,  look  out  if  you  don't  smell  a 

rat! 
Here's  a  bit  of  old  meat,'  said  the  troll;    but 

with  that 

Of  a  sudden  the  sun  had  come  up  with  a  bound. 
'The  sun's    here,'  says  I,   'and  the  east  is  all 

red.' 
They  sneezed  and  all  took  to  their  heels  then," 

he  said. 

"It  roared  in  the  mountains  and   rang  in  the 

valley, 
But  at  last  'mid  far  summits,  it  died  away  slowly, 


28  SELECTED  POEMS 

Till  it  sank  to  a  hum  in  the  woods  to  the  north. 
Still    it    looked    like    a    fight    to   see   chimneys 

a-shaking, 
When    ore-house    and    coal-house    and    smithy 

were  quaking, 
For  as  if  turning  cartwheels,  they  swayed  back 

and  forth.  — 

Yes,  trolls  fear  the  sun  just  as  I  should  fear  truly 
To  lie  or  to  draw  the  long  bow,"  finished  Ole. 


THE  OLD  MOUNTAIN  TROLL 

The  evening  draws  on  apace  now, 
The  night  will  be  dark  and  drear; 
I  ought  to  go  up  to  my  place  now, 
But  'tis  pleasanter  far  down  here. 

'Mid  the  peaks  where  the  snow-storm  is  yelling 
'Tis  lonely  and  empty  and  cold; 
But  'tis  merry  where  people  are  dwelling, 
In  the  beautiful  dale's  green  fold. 

And  I  think  that  when  I  was  last  here 
A  princess  wondrously  fair 
With  gold  on  her  head  went  past  here; 
She'd  be  food  for  a  month,  I  swear! 

The  rest  fled,  for  none  dared  linger, 
But  they  turned  when  far  off  to  cry, 
29 


30  SELECTED  POEMS 

While  each  of  them  pointed  a  finger: 
"What  a  great  nasty  troll!  oh  fie!" 

But  the  princess,  friendly  and  mild-eyed, 
Gazed  up  at  me,  object  of  fright, 
Though  I  must  have  looked  evil  and  wild-eyed, 
And  her  friends  had  all  taken  to  flight. 

Next  time  I  will  kiss  her  and  hold  her, 
Though  ugly  of  mouth  am  I, 
And  cradle  and  lull  on  my  shoulder, 
Saying:    "Bye,  little  sweet-snout,  bye!" 

And  into  a  sack  I'll  get  her 
And  take  her  home  with  me  straight, 
And  then  at  Yule  I  will  eat  her 
Served  up  on  a  fine  gold  plate. 

But  hum,  a-hum,  but  come,  come,  come! 
Who'd  look  at  me  then  so  kindly  ? 


THE  OLD  MOUNTAIN  TROLL          31 

I'm  a  dullard  surely  —  a-hum,  a-hum  !  — 
To  think  the  thing  out  so  blindly. 

These  Christian  children  are  tender 

As  lambs;    we're  but  trolls,  are  we, 

And  for  eating,  when  luck  seemed  to  send  her, 

'T would  be  hard  to  let  her  be. 

And  yet  things  easily  move  us, 
Though  we're  lonely  and  wicked  and  dull, 
Some  teaching  would  surely  improve  us, 
And  get  through  even  my  old  skull. 


THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM 
i 

He  entered  and  said:    "Good  even!  good  folk, 

And  thanks  for  last  time  I  came  in." 

Then    he    sat    himself    down    by    the    chimney 

nook,  — 
What  with  tramping  and  want  he  looked  thin. 

At  his  feet  lay  his  gun  and  his  traps,  with  a 
string 

Of  wild-fowl  from  heath  and  from  moor. 

He  picked  up  a  wood-grouse  with  wide-spread- 
ing wing: 

"Take  that  for  my  welcome  before:" 

The  glow  of  the  fire,  as  he  basked  in  its  heat, 
On  the  hunter's  dark  form  redly  fell, 
32 


THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM        33 

While  the  good-wife  was  cutting  off  collops  of 

meat, 
Bits  of  sausage  and  pudding  as  well. 

"He's  tired,  he's  come  a  long  way,  the  poor  man; 

Fall  to,  then,  and  take  what  you  get. 

There's  a  drop  —  thank  the  nixie !  —  to  follow 

it  then; 
To-night  is  the  bitterest  yet!" 

Right    soon    fell    a    hush    in    the    low-humming 

sound, 

As  grandmother's  wheel  ceased  to  spin, 
And   the   boys   and   the   girls  gathered   quietly 

round 
To  listen  when  Malm  should  begin. 

But  Malm  was  not  merry,  as  erst  he  would  be, 
Nor  sang  as  when  last  he  was  there ; 
He  was  silent  and  surly,  'twas  easy  to  see, 
With  no  gay  lying  stories  to  spare. 


34  SELECTED  POEMS 

ii 

"Hark  ye!    Malm,"  the  good-wife  bade  then, 
"Where's  the  maiden  that  you  had  then 
When  you  came  here  last?    She  carried 
All  your  game  upon  her  back; 
She,  poor  thing!    you  said  you'd  married, 
Called  her  wife,  good-lack! 

"Shy  as  woodland  hare  methought  her, 
But  she  followed,  when  you  brought  her, 
At  your  heels  as  hound  his  master; 
Like  your  horse  your  load  she  bore,  — 
Work  enough  had  she  to  last  her, 
Aye,  good  soul !  and  more." 

"You  mean  Biddy?  —  Nay,  'twas  never; 
Blow  on  blow  I  had  to  give  her. 
Or  with  Christie  was  I  bedding? 
Many  a  wife  I've  had  and  lost; 
In  the  woods  there  I've  a  wedding 
Every  day  almost. 


THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM        35 

"As  I  came  by  Elfdale  sedges 
Over  Whitsand  on  the  ledges, 
There  was  someone  caterwauling, 
Crying,  'Oh,  dear  Malm,  come  in!' 
Lo!    it  was  my  wife  a-calling, 
Or  my  once-had-been. 

"So  I  stopped  and  gave  the  hussy 
My  last  coin  and  said:    'Get  busy! 
If  you  want  another,  beg  it, 
Or  if  that  won't  do,  why  steal. 
Wipe  your  face,  dear.     I  must  leg  it; 
I'm  in  haste.     Farewell!' 

"As  I  jogged  up  Fryken  highway, 
There  a  girl  stood  on  a  by-way; 
In  a  rag  I  saw  her  gather 
Twins,  and  in  a  voice  I  knew: 
'Sweety  tootsies,  look  at  father!' 
Screamed  she.  —  My  wife,  too ! 


36  SELECTED  POEMS 

"While  on  Rottne  I  was  standing, 
All  the  woodland  slope  commanding, 
Came  a  troop  of  brats  to  plague  me, 
With  two  jades.     Dumb-struck  I  stood, 
When  they  all  began  to  beg  me, 
Weeping,  for  some  food. 

"They  were  folk  from  o'er  the  border, 

Gypsies  of  the  lowest  order, 

Black  as  sin  were  all  the  rout,  then. 

So  my  answer  to  them  was: 

'  If  you're  hungry,  go  without,  then !  — 

That's  what  father  does.'" 

"Malm's  old  stories!"  said  the  mother. 

"Well,  go  on  and  tell  another 

Story  of  your  favorite  pastime, 

Partly  false  and  partly  true. 

Tell  us,  though,  of  her  that  last  time 

You  had  here  with  you." 


THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM        37 

"I  did  lie,"  said  Malm,  and  faltered, 
And  his  whole  expression  altered; 
Tense  he  stared  in  indecision 
At  the  fire,  then  o'er  his  brow 
Drew  his  hand,  as  if  a  vision 
Rose  before  him  now. 

"This  is  truth,  then,  not  one  tittle 
More  or  less,  about  my  little 
Last  wife,  if  you'll  hear  about  it; 
Eli-lita  was  her  name,  — 
If  you  don't  believe,  why,  doubt  it, 
Still  the  truth's  the  same. 

"Yes,  she  was  my  dog,  I  taught  her 
How  to  drudge  on  meal  and  water; 
Was  my  little  mare  so  slender, 
Worked  and  starved  and  froze  with  me; 
And  my  bed-mate,  and  my  tender 
Little  sweetheart  she. 


38  SELECTED  POEMS 

"She  was  kind  through  all  my  tasking, 

Gave  me  all  things  for  the  asking, 

Never  said  an  ill  word  of  me, 

And  if  I  grew  harder,  why 

All  the  better  she  would  love  me,  — 

That  was  her  reply. 

"But  you  know  how  one  misuses 
Love  like  that,  and  most  abuses 
What  he  cares  for  most  of  all  things, 
Greedily  from  her  alone 
Taking  great  and  taking  small  things 
Until  all  is  gone. 

"Tell  me,  have  I  never  hounded 
Some  poor  red-deer  when  'twas  wounded ; 
Have  I  seen  how  soft  it  eyed  me, 
Though  by  then  'twas  sorely  bled, 
How  it  suffered,  and  beside  me  — 
Just  like  that !  —  was  dead  ? 


THE  WIVES  OF  HUNTER  MALM        39 

"So  did  Eli-lita,  turning, 

Look  at  me  with  pain  and  yearning, 

When  —  like  that !  —  she  sank  down  quickly, 

Lay  where  she  had  stood, 

And  her  breath  was  rattling  sickly, 

From  her  mouth  came  blood. 

"When  the  blood  began  to  thicken 
And  the  flow  began  to  weaken, 
She  was  white  as  chalk,  but  bluer, 
She  whose  cheek  was  never  red; 
When  I  stooped  to  whisper  to  her, 
She  was  dead. 

"By  a  fir-tree's  roots  I  laid  her 
In  the  wilderness  and  made  her 
Of  the  mould  and  twigs  a  cover 
'Mid  the  needles  and  the  moss, 
Cutting  in  the  bark  thereover 
Letters  and  a  cross. 


40  SELECTED  POEMS 

"But  that's  long  since  now,  and  no  man 
Should  keep  snivelling  for  a  woman 
Till  his  lungs  go  bad,  I'm  thinking  — 
Old-maids'  foolishness!  that's  all. 
Give  me  summat  strong  for  drinking! 
Thanks  to  you,  and  skoal!" 


LITTLE  JOE-JOHNNY 

"Little  Joe- Johnny,  — 

Isn't  he  bonny  ? 

Takes  after  mother,  the  good  little  dear! 

Look  how  he  blows  now 

In's  fist  his  nose  now 

Just  as  his  pa  does.     Joe- Johnny,  come  here! 

"Look!    how  politely 

He  bows,  and  how  brightly 

Shine  the  long  curls  of  our  little  Joe- Johnny. 

Hoho!  my  sonny 

Knows  how  to  make  himself  pleasant,  you  see. 

Yes,  and  he's  able  to 

Quote  from  the  Bible  too, 

Well  as  the  dean,  priest  and  sexton,  all  three. 


42  SELECTED  POEMS 

"Tell  me,  Joe- Johnny,  what  was  it  that  Moses  — 
Look  how  your  nose  is !  — 
Promised  the  Jews  in  the  words  of  the  law, 
If  they  would  honor  their  pa  and  their  ma  ? 

"Now  you  shall  hear  from  little  Joe- Johnny  — 

He'll  be  a  priest  when  he's  bigger,  what's  more," 

So  said  his  mother,  caressing  Joe- Johnny. 

But  —  awful  to  tell!  — 

When  she  was  done,  he 

Swore 

Stoutly  and  gruffly:    "Oh,  ma,  go  to  hell!" 


MAIDENS'  GLANCES 

Oh,  be  ye  ware  of  maidens 
And  of  their  fickle  glance. 
A  fickle  maiden's  glances 
Have  brought  me  evil  chance; 
Her  glance  of  wit  bereaved  me, 
And  then  her  glance  deceived  me. 

She  glanced  at  all  and  several, 

She  likewise  glanced  at  me, 

She  promised  she  would  follow  me 

On  life's  road  faithfully, 

But  when  another  came  to  her, 

She  glanced  and  thought  no  blame  to  her. 

She'd  glance  about  from  side  to  side 
And  always  nod  assent 
To  each  and  every  village  lad 
43 


44  SELECTED  POEMS 

Who  came  on  pleasure  bent. 
The  devil  take  the  glance  of  her, 
The  nod  and  look-askance  of  herl 

And  now  that  we  are  married 
And  she  is  mine,  what  then  ? 
Each  evening  she  goes  out  to  dance 
With  all  her  fancy-men, 
While  I  get  many  a  bang,  myself. 
I  vow  I'll  go  and  hang  myself. 


THREE   CAROLLING  GIRLS 

One  morning  there  journeyed  three  lasses, 

On  the  high-road  to  Linden  Lea, 
Who,  swinging  their  long  braided  tresses, 

Went  carolling  gayly  all  three. 

They  walked  first  in  marching-time  only, 
Then  waltzed  along  careless  and  free, 

Said,  "My  but  the  sea-shore  is  lonely!" 
And  carolled  on  gayly  all  three. 

When  they  came  to  the  turning,  the  lasses, 

(On  the  highway  to  Linden  Lea) 
They  cried  "Cuckoo!"  and  quick  in  the  grasses 

They  crouched  down  as  still  as  could  be,  — 

And  stayed  there  as  still  as  the  dead  then, 
And  blushed  to  the  eyelids  all  three. 
45 


46  SELECTED  POEMS 

But  why  should  the  girls  have  grown  red  then, 
And  why  checked  this  carol  of  glee  ? 

Aha! 

Three  students  stood  near  where  it  passes,  — 

The  highway  to  Linden  Lea,  — 
And  'twas  therefore  they  shrank  'mid  the  grasses, 

Those  carolling  maidens  three. 

Then  the  students,  who  stood  there  a-smirking, 

And  sniggering  slyly  all  three, 
Cried  "Cuckoo!"  to  the  lasses  a-lurking, 

And  mimicked  their  carol  of  glee. 


AN  OLD  ROOM 

There  is  an  old  low  room  I  love; 
Dark  broken  plaster  spreads  above. 
Near-by  is  heard  the  muffled  tone 
Of  roaring  sluice  and  sawmill's  drone. 
The  furniture's  of  ancient  mould, 
Ample,  and  stoutly  made, 
With  curving  legs  of  white  and  gold, 
And  flower-enwrought  brocade. 

There  in  a  corner,  dim  and  swart, 
Stands  a  bronze  bust  of  Bonaparte, 
Who  with  his  white  horse  rides  in  all 
The  pale  engravings  on  the  wall; 
Through  Ulm  and  Austerlitz  they  go, 
At  Beresina  too, 
From  victory-glow  to  overthrow 
At  bloody  Waterloo. 
47 


48  SELECTED  POEMS 

Karl-Johan  faces,  dim  with  dust, 
Napoleon's  mute  and  frigid  bust. 
The  long  thin  nose  is  bold  and  free, 
The  tight-closed  lips  curve  silently 
Ready  to  hurl  forth  accents  dire 
In  thundering  cascade, 
Hot  with  the  heart's  volcanic  fire, 
A  mighty  gasconade. 

A  bookcase  old  of  speckled  birch, 
Where  massive  carvings  darkly  perch, 
Holds  many  a  poet  of  romance. 
We  see  as  o'er  the  backs  we  glance 
First  Atterborn  with  flowing  hair, 
Tegner,  the  second  guest; 
The  lily  of  Sharon's  bard  is  there, 
And  Brier-Rose's  priest. 

A  lone  fly  buzzes  on  the  sill, 
The  clock's  long  pendulum  is  still, 


AN  OLD  ROOM  49 

The  languorous  breath  of  jasmine  pours 
From  blooming  bushes  out-of-doors, 
While  pungent  from  a  near-by  vase 
Comes  scent  of  rose-leaves  dead, 
Which  through  the  bright  prismatic  glass 
Diffuse  their  softened  red. 

^ 

Between  the  windows  then  appears 

A  spinet  dumb  these  sixty  years; 

But  I  can  picture  some  one  there 

In  corn-gold  skirt  upon  the  chair, 

With  corkscrew  curls  and  shawl  of  lace,  — 

The  form  is  my  great-aunt's. 

Pale  orange  is  her  faded  face, 

And  dark  her  wide-eyed  glance. 

As  languishing  as  poppy-dreams 
She  sings  with  tender  tone,  and  seems 
To  sway  her  head  in  time  to  words 
That  tell  of  love  and  Persian  birds; 


SO  SELECTED  POEMS 

Of  nightingales  that  never  cease 
And  violets'  perfumed  sighs, 
Of  roses'  pain  and  lilies'  peace 
In  that  far  paradise. 

The  chamber  fills  with  sweetest  scent 
Of  ambergris  and  flowers  blent, 
With  floating  down  of  butterflies, 
And  all  such  pretty  fooleries; 
Till  little  fays  on  tiptoe  light 
Steal  softly  through  the  room, 
And  guardian  angels  hover  bright 
Within  the  shadow's  gloom. 


HOMECOMING 

i 

O'er  the  clouds  is  a  glow,  o'er  the  lake  is  a  sheen, 
There's  sunlight  on  beach  and  on  ness, 
Around  them  the  woods  are  a  glorious  green, 
The  grass  feels  the  south  wind's  caress. 

'Mid    summer    and    beauty    and    pure-scented 

breeze 

I  hail  this  my  native  strand.  — 
But  there  is  a  void  by  the  maple-trees 
Where  my  father's  home  used  to  stand. 

It  is  gone,  it  i?  burned,  there  is  nought  left  be- 
hind 

Save  the  rocks  of  all  traces  bereft! 
But  memory  comes  with  the  cool-breathing  wind, 
And  memory  is  all  that  is  left. 
Si 


52  SELECTED  POEMS 

I  see  a  white  gable  before  me  again, 

A  window  stands  open  within  it, 

Through   which   there   is   wafted   the   rollicking 

strain 
Of  a  melody  played  on  the  spinet. 

And  I  hear  now  my  father  singing  his  best 

As  in  youth  when  his  spirit  was  glad. 

The  song  was  soon  hushed   in  his  languishing 

breast 
And  his  life  became  weary  and  sad. 

It  is  gone,  it  is  burned.     I  will  lie  by  the  side 
Of  the  lake  here  and  hark  to  his  tale 
Of  the  woman  who  lived  as  the  calm  years  glide, 
The  old  wife  of  Alsterdale. 

He  sings  of  her  grief  in  a  voice  as  low 
And  soft  as  a  dream-song's  tone : 
"That  is  over  these  twenty  long  years  ago, 
That's  dead  and  buried  and  gone. 


HOMECOMING  53 

"Where    you,    lovely    visions,    would    formerly 

throng 

The  moonlight  falls  lonely  and  pale.  — 
And  that  is  the  end  of  my  cradle-song 
Of  the  old  wife  of  Alsterdale." 

n 

That  grove !  —  the  cuckoo  called  from  there, 
And  little  girls  would  bound, 
In  ragged  skirts  with  feet  all  bare, 
Where  berries  might  be  found. 
And  here  was  shade  and  there  was  sun, 
And  yon  were  violets  many  a  one; 
To  me  it  all  is  dear, 
My  childhood  whispers  here. 

ill 

Here  the  path  ascends,  here  the  forest  grew, 
Here  the  kingdom  of  fable  enthralled  our  gaze, 
Here  is  the  stone  that  a  troll  once  threw 
At  a  Christian  monk  in  heathen  days. 


54  SELECTED  POEMS 

Here  is  Wolfs  castle  of  boulders  drear 
Hence  rang  his  piercing,  treacherous  cries, 
Here  sat  little  Ulva,  his  daughter  dear, 
With  hairy  breast  and  strange  mad  eyes. 

Here  goes  the  road  to  Happiness  Land, 
But  'tis  long  and  narrow  and  weed-begrown ; 
And  no  Puss-in-Boots  is  now  at  hand 
To  show  us  the  way  as  in  years  long  gone. 

IV 

King  Lily-o'th'-Valley  so  stately 
Has  a  helmet  silvery  bright, 
The  young  king  sorroweth  greatly 
For  his  frost-slain  princess  white. 

King  Lily-o'th'-Valley,  he  sinketh 
His  head  so  heavy  with  care, 
The  light  of  his  helmet  blinketh 
In  the  hueless  evening  air. 


HOMECOMING  55 

A  shroud  of  cobweb  covers 
The  form  so  fair  in  death, 
While  soft  flower-incense  hovers 
And  fills  the  woods  with  its  breath. 

From  the  birch-tops  mournfully  swinging, 
From  green  vines  nodding  on  high 
Wee  songs  of  lament  are  ringing, 
Till  the  woods  are  filled  with  a  sigh. 

Through  the  glades  a  messenger  beareth 
The  sigh  to  each  whispering  leaf, 
Till  all  the  wide  forest  heareth 
Of  Lily-o'th'-Valley's  grief. 


FROM  THE  CITY,  AND  MISCEL- 
LANEOUS 


THE  BALL 
AN  HEROIC  POEM 

i 

Once,  when  my  youthful  head  of  dreams  was  full, 
Society  to  me  was  deadly  dull. 
The  life  Bohemian  I  followed  then, 
Wrote  fervid  poems  and  tore  them  up  again. 
Over  my  punch  I  wept  and  played  the  fool, 
At  times  was  reckless,  and  at  others  cool; 
And  went  and  dreamed  of  laurels  and  of  gold 
Till  I  grew  thin  and  wretched  to  behold. 

About  this  time  there  chanced  to  be  a  ball 
One  winter  evening  at  the  public  hall. 
I  hung  about  the  door  in  borrowed  rig, 
The  coat  too  long  and  every  way  too  big, 
My  shirt-front,  stiffly  starched  and  very  high, 
Stood  proudly  out  beyond  my  new  white  tie. 
59 


60  SELECTED  POEMS 

A  shirt-stud  missing  and  my  shoe-heel  torn, 
I  chafed  there  full  of  restlessness  and  scorn. 
Meanwhile  before  me  bustled  the  elite, 
The  dignitaries  of  the  county-seat: 
Here  high  officials  glittered  in  gold  lace 
About  the  stately  chieftain  of  the  place, 
And  knights  of  trade  with  many  worthies  more 
Thronged  round  their  brandy-king,  our  senator. 
Off  to  one  side  stood  Major  Gyldenstorm 
And  Captain  Adelfeldt  in  uniform, 
Yonder  a  trim  lieutenant  sauntered  by 
Twirling  his  blond  mustache  impressively, 
While  over  there  in  eager  expectation 
A  group  of  stiff  civilians  had  their  station. 
And,  aunt  by  aunt  along  the  wall,  arrayed 
In  lilac,  gold  and  every  other  shade, 
En-isled  in  lace,  with  air  serenely  grand, 
The  elder  ladies  sat  and  gently  fanned 
Their  youthful  cheeks  with  many  a  blandishment 
Of  gracious  aristocratic  self-content. 


THE  BALL  61 

A  worldly-wise  embittered  pessimist, 
I  found  the  whole  thing  empty,  dull  and  "triste." 
I  fumed  and  fretted  at  my  gaping  shoe 
And  at  my  accursed  borrowed  dress-coat  too, 
And  thought:    "How  stupid!  going  to  a  ball." 
But  stop !  the  chief  is  speaking.     Silence,    all ! 
Champagne  corks  pop,  and  then  we  hear  a  song 
"Straight  from  the  Swedish  heart,  sincere  and 

strong." 

II 

But  hark !    these  ghostly  shuffles  now 

On  stair,  till  in  her  ruffles  now, 

Amid  a  general  bustling 

And  sound  of  silks  a-rustling, 

Old  Madame  Owl  sails  in. 

Of  ancient  style  her  dress  is, 

Her  manner  too  no  less  is, 

For  seventy  years  have  written 

Such  lines  as  well  befit  in 

Her  white  and  high-born  skin. 


62  SELECTED  POEMS 

But  stoutly  still  she  bears  herself, 

Steers  family  aiFairs  herself, 

And  faces  wind  and  weather 

As  fought  of  old  her  father 

At  Lech  and  Holofzin. 

All  others  leave  their  prattle  now, 

Heads  bend  and  bracelets  rattle  now, 

The  while  'mid  fluttering  banners 

And  due  ancestral  honors 

Old  Madame  Owl  sails  in. 

ill 
Then  —  as   a    pleasure-yacht    with   light    wind 

sailing 

Tacks  nimbly  round  a  sturdy  admiral-ship, 
From  mast  and  sail  and  wheel  and  rudder  trail- 
ing 

Festoons  of  myrtle  for  her  maiden  trip, 
With  flags  that  stream  afresh  at  every  turn  — 
Comes  the  granddaughter,  Mistress  Elsa  Erne. 


Till-.    HAM.  63 

Above  her  hair  a  flame-red  rose  enhance! 
The  gold  arranged  in  classic  Swedish  line, 
With  head  held  like  a  princess  she  advances; 
Slim  is  her  figure,  spirited  and  fine. 
She  moves  with  supple  tread  in  ballet  style, 
Coquettishly,  like  town-girls  too,  the  while. 

Her  eyes  are  brimming  o'er  with  roguish  malice, 

Her  fresh  lips  pout  most  tantalizingly 

Just  like  a  budding  flower's  half-opened  chalice, 

A  snub  and  disputatious  nose  has  she. 

Of  grandma's  dignity  she  wears  no  jot; 

She's  not  a  warship  but  a  pleasure-yacht. 

A  trim  yacht  on  her  maiden  voyage,  riding 
The  glad  waves  when  the  dawn  is  glimmering 

pale, 

So  —  in  her  grandma's  wake  demurely  gliding, 
While  the  spring  breeze  fills  every  murmuring  sail, 
With  flags  that  stream  afresh  at  every  turn,  — 
Comes  the  granddaughter,  Mistress  Elsa  Erne. 


64  SELECTED  POEMS 

IV 

And  with  that  moment  all  things  took  new  form, 
Wearing  a  gayer,  more  elusive  charm : 
The  music  seemed  more  musically  rare, 
More   clear    and    brilliant    grew   the   gas-light's 

flare, 

And  my  contempt  for  human-kind  took  flight; 
The  chieftain  now  looked  clever  in  my  sight, 
The   knights   of  trade  went   by  with   decorous 

heed, 

Their  brandy-monarch  seemed  of  noble  breed; 
The  Major  too,  —  with  laced  and  thickset  body, 
A  kindly-souled  receptacle  for  toddy,  — 
Was  now  a  veteran  in  life's  hard  game; 
And  all  the  titled  aunties  now  became 
Enshrined  in  light  from  days  that  once  had  been, 
And  Mistress  Elsa  was  a  glorious  queen. 

For  it  was  she  whom  every  day  I  met, 
When  every  day  I  hurried  out  to  get 


THE  BALL  65 

My  walk  to  nowhere  in  particular, 
Sunk  deep  in  dreams  of  things  that  never  were 
Or  would  be;    it  was  she  to  whose  sweet  name 
I  wrote  my  poems;    it  was  she  who  came 
In  dreams,  and  sat  and  talked  consolingly 
With  hopeful  girlish  wisdom  then  to  me. 

v 

Then,  their  nonsense  uttering, 
Off  they  go 
To  dance  a-fluttering 
On  nimble  toe, 
With  soft  combining 
Of  black  coats  twining 
'Mid  lace  outstreaming 
As  moth-down  light, 
And  shoulders  gleaming, 
And  slippers  white. 

It  was  a  billowing 
Flood  of  spring, 


66  SELECTED  POEMS 

When  the  fast-following 

Breakers  ring. 

But  mirth  was  highest 

And  rapture  nighest 

When  in  a  corner 

By  a  fern 

Where  the  tide  had  borne  her 

Sank  Elsa  Erne. 

She  sat  there  panting, 
Flushed  and  fair, 
A  young  enchanting 
Naiad  there, 
En-frothed  in  laces 
And  tulle-foam  graces 
As,  restful-handed, 
And  eyes  content, 
She  there  was  stranded 
When  the  wave  was  spent. 


THE  BALL  67 

VI 

Then  I,  against  bashfulness  bracing  myself, 
Before  the  young  girl  boldly  placing  myself, 
Bowed,  begged  and  was  given  a  dance. 
Mistress  Elsa  bowed  back  and  smiled  at  me, 
And  constrained  herself  to  be  mild  to  me 
And  give  me  a  gracious  glance. 

And  into  the  polka  I  flung  myself, 
And  there  'mid  the  dances  I  swung  myself 
Like  a  resolute  fighting-boat. 
And  we  turned   among  them  and   bumped  to- 
gether, 

Like  whirling  bobbins  we  jumped  together, 
And  out  flew  the  tails  of  my  coat. 

Mistress  Elsa  grew  red,  but  controlled  herself,  | 
And  lightly  she  managed  to  hold  herself 
And  follow  when  I  would  go  wrong. 
Like  Titania  at  first  she  tripped  about, 


68  SELECTED  POEMS 

But  gasped  with  each  step  as  we  skipped  about, 
And  her  face  became  pale  before  long. 

Her  anxious  manner  infected  me, 

And  a  cross  look  at  last  disconnected  me 

From  my  wits  and  my  courage  bold. 

On  tables  and  chairs  we  stranded  then, 

Shipwrecked  in  the  corner  we  landed  then ;  — 

Mistress  Elsa's  laugh  sounded  cold. 

VII 

I  understood  that  everything  was  over, 
And  melancholy  round  my  soul  did  hover; 
For  I  had  danced  away  my  happiness, 
And  drank  of  wormwood  now  in  mute  distress. 
All  that  I  saw  was  once  more  dead  and  drear, 
All  things  were  shameful,  stupid,  insincere; 
Like  fetters  on  my  soul  they  seemed  to  close. 
I  twiddled  with  my  thumbs,  I  blew  my  nose, 
At  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling  then  I  peered, 
And  fingered  awkwardly  my  youthful  beard. 


THE   BALL  69 

She  looked  at  me  the  while,  did  Mistress  Erne, 
And  wondered,  for  her  eyes  could  not  discern 
My  heart's  hid  sorrow  and  my  spirit's  gloom; 
She  bit  her  lips  for  fear  a  smile  would  come, 
And  finally,  grown  serious  with  surprise, 
She  toward  her  slender  ankle  drooped  her  eyes. 
Then  suddenly  I  felt  a  wild  desire 
To  speak  as  Hamlet  does  in  tragic  ire, 
And  say  in  tones  dramatically  stern : 
"Go,  get  thee  to  a  nunnery,  Mistress  Erne!" 
The  words  would  not  be  clear,  but  still  they'd  be 
Something  not  heard  at  dances  frequently. 

VIII 

Then,  looking  at  the  floor,  I  said  at  last : 
"Miss  Erne,  full  well  you  know  that  youth  is 

dead, 

That  love  is  gone,  and  life  a  desert  vast 
Through   which   like    pallid   ghosts   we   mortals 

tread 


70  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  see  like  smoke  our  fond  illusions  going. 
In  the  last  rays  of  twilight  faintly  glowing. 

"Fata  Morganas  are  the  journey's  goal, 
Toward  which  we  all  resistlessly  are  hurried, 
To  find  but  emptiness  that  cheats  the  soul 
Wherein  we  wander  only  to  be  buried." 
—  "Heaven  forbid  !"  the  girl  cried  in  amazement, 
And  clasped  her  hands  with  pious  self-abasement. 

Still  darkly  staring  at  the  floor,  I  said : 
"Think  not  by  laughter  sorrow  may  be  hid, 
Nor  hark  to  those  who  sport  beneath  the  blade 
Of  fate's  grim  axe,  as  Scherezade  did, 
From  day  to  day  the  menaced  blow  delaying, 
Each  night  with  poetry  her  ransom  paying. 

"Alas!  the  law  of  doom  will  hear  no  plea, 
Is  softened  by  no  maiden  hand's  caress, 
No  poem  stays  that  sultan's  dread  decree, 
He  smites  the  greater  and  he  smites  the  less; 


THE  BALL  71 

The  simoon  he,  what  boots  it  to  withstand  here 
The  desert  whirlwind's  blinding  weight  of  sand 
here. 

"And  think  you  at  this  ball  you  can  embrace 
True  joy?  —  Tis  but  a  death's-head   you  have 

kissed ! 

We  seek  for  pleasure,  pain  is  in  its  place; 
We  feed  on  husks,  the  kernel  we  have  missed." 
Here    anxiously    she    asked :    "Are  you  insane, 

sir?" 
Then  waited  very  still  to  hear  my  answer. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  "when  wisdom  would    devour 

Its  liver  for  a  jest,  the  mad  are  wise; 

When  life's  last  flame  of  joy  has  ceased  to  flower, 

Only  in  madness  our  deliverance  lies." 

Then  she  remarked :    "Oh,  yes,  perhaps  in   one 

sense,  — 
For   brainsick    boys;     but   for   young    girls   it's 

nonsense!" 


72  SELECTED  POEMS 

IX 

Once  more  I  saw  triumphantly  advance 

A  trim  yacht  on  the  white  wave  of  the  dance. 

How  skilfully  she  tacked,  how  fleetly  slid, 

Her  pride  of  race  in  everything  she  did, 

From  arm  to  arm  she  sailed  superbly  by, 

With  pliant  grace,  her  bosom  heaving  high ! 

Though  all  around  me  purled  a  noisy  stream, 
Yet  I  heard  nothing,  I  was  in  a  dream. 
I  wished  to  sorrow  with  a  true  despair, 
But  could  not,  I  was  much  too  young  for  care. 
I  thought :    This  really  is  a  stupid  pose 
To  look  so  sick,  so  heavy  and  morose. 

Then  in  my  trance  I  saw  a  wondrous  sight. 
I  was  with  Elsa  in  the  starlit  night 
Upon  a  bench  somewhere  far,  far  away 
Beside  a  lake  with  waves  and  splashing  spray. 
And  while  on  us  the  moon  shone  coldly  pale 


THE   BALL  73 

As  with  the  mystic  light  of  some  old  tale, 

I  built  a  splendid  castle  out  of  air, 

Of  moonlight  and  of  pretty  nonsense  there. 

x 

Think  not  that  death  the  end  of  life  shall  be; 
No,  no,  ye  ageless  powers  of  destiny, 
Of  whose  dark  shrine  none  knoweth  certainly, 
We  shall  live  on  into  felicity. 

Within  the  Seventh  Heaven's  festal  hall 
With  harp  and  song  is  held  an  endless  ball, 
Whence  music  goes  reechoing  through  all 
The  colonnades  from  wall  to  crystal  wall. 


Star-lustres  pour  in  rainbow  tints 
Their  myriad-sparkling  prismatic  glints, 
While  many  an  archangel's  daughter  fair, 
Shy  lashes  lowered,  is  dancing  there 
On  the  arm  of  a  cherub  prince. 
Trains  like  shimmering  mist  they  bring, 


74  SELECTED  POEMS 

Their  diadems  blaze  like  a  comet's  trail 
As  through  the  joyous  dance  they  swing, 
And  their  locks  float  lightly  as  clouds  that  sail 
On  the  languid  breath  of  the  summer  gale, 
While  the  daylight  of  lovers'  dreams 
Flushes  each  cheek  with  its  beams. 
Till,  all  aflame,  they  take  wings  and  fly, 
The  glow  of  rapture  in  every  eye. 
And  'mid  the  throng  in  delicious  trance 
The  love-pairs  hovering  thread  the  dance, 
Then  seek  their  way  through  the  halls,  and  turn 
Into  quiet  rooms  where  the  lustres  burn 
With  stars  that  more  dimly  glance. 


And  bliss  is  served  in  cups  of  fullest  measure, 

All  redolent  of  hope,  agleam  with  pleasure. 

They  sip  it  from  the  cups  anon  and  oft 

On  their  celestial  couches,  cloudy-soft. 

And  God  the  Father  from  his  throne  the  while, 

Looking,  nods  time  with  glad  approving  smile, 


THE  BALL  75 

For  He  alone  has  fully  understood 

The  worth  of  love,  and  knows  that  it  is  good. 

At  length  with  bashful  step  we  two  advance 
Among  the  countless  myriads  there  that  dance, 
And  bow  before  the  throne  respectfully: 
"We  have  come  here  to  seek  felicity. 
Our  wretched  country  town  herewith  we  spurn  — 
And  this  is  I  and  that  is  Elsa  Erne." 

Then  God  smiles  down  with  gentle  irony 
And  good,  grandfather-like  solemnity: 
"I'm  glad  that  such  a  pair  as  you  have  come. 
Take  what  you  find  here,  make  yourselves  at 

home, 

Amid  these  other  youngsters  have  your  fling, 
And  waltz  till  Heaven's  arches  seem  to  swing ! " 

So   we   dance   off,   we   dance   the   whole   night 

through, 
Till,  tiring,  it  is  easy  for  us  two 


76  SELECTED  POEMS 

To  find  here  in  God's  palace,  when  we  look, 

Somewhere  a  safe  and  quite  secluded  nook. 

We  steal  there,  and  a  life-warm  flood 

(Like  young  and  new-enamoured  blood), 

In    waves    of    sheer    love    through    our   being 

streams.  — 
And  then  we  fall  asleep  and  dream  sweet  dreams. 


THE  CITY  LIEUTENANT 

Who's  coming  there,  who's  riding  there  ?  —  he 
prances  with  a  zest! 

As  gorgeous  as  a  pennant, 

'Tis  he,  the  bold  lieutenant. 

The  girls  from  windows  spy  him, 

The  wistful  house-maids  eye  him. 

He  sits  his  gallant  charger  like  a  prince  who 
looks  his  best. 

By  glory!  but  he's  handsome  in  his  snow- 
white  vest. 

He  sparkles  in  the  sunlight  like  the  facets  of  a 

brook, 

His  polished  boots  are  gleaming, 
Their  radiance  out-streaming; 
His  spine  is  like  an  arrow, 
And  my!  his  waist  is  narrow. 
77 


78  SELECTED  POEMS 

His  coat  is  like  a  picture  in  the  latest  fashion- 
book. 

Just  look  at  him,  just  look  at  him,  just  look, 
look,  look! 

He  smiles  —  the  young  lieutenant  —  as  be- 
nignly as  a  priest, 

And  twirls  his  blond  mustaches 

As  through  the  street  he  flashes, 

Bows  to  the  girls  politely, 

Nods  to  the  maids  more  slightly, 

And  sits  his  gallant  charger  like  a  prince  who 
looks  his  best. 

By  glory!  but  he's  handsome  in  his  snow-white 
vest. 


POET  WENNERBOM 

Through  the  city  park  goes  a  summer  sigh, 

As  Poet  Wennerbom,  reeling  by, 

Comes  from  the  poor-house,  bottle  in  hand, 

Warily  tacks  o'er  the  driveway  sand, 

Takes  a  swig  the  while, 

Mumbles  and  smiles  a  maudlin  smile. 

Bees  from  the  gardener's  hive  hum  near, 

Caterpillars  are  tumbling  sheer 

From  the  trees,  which  are  all  in  fullest  bloom 

Filling  the  air  with  rich  perfume.  — 

On  the  shady  sward 

The  poet  sits  to  drink  like  a  lord. 

Birds  play  tag  with  a  merry  twitter, 
Hundreds  of  grasshoppers  twang  the  zither, 
Sourly  Wennerbom  hears  the  din. 
While  he  gulps  away  at  his  wretched  gin,  — 
79 


80  SELECTED  POEMS 

Swills  like  a  swine,  — 

The  sun's  bright  beams  on  the  bottle  shine. 

Poet  and  bottle  commune  in  glee: 

"Gin  gives  genius,"  mumbles  he; 

"Gin  gives  comfort  when  hope  is  fled  — 

Here's  to  youth  and  the  days  long  dead ! 

Let  us  drink  it  straight ! 

Time  passes  and  we  do;  such  is  fate. 

"I  was  happy  in  faith  and  noble  in  thought 
Till  I  drowned  in  this  hog-wash  and  came  to 

nought. 

I  was  done  at  fifteen.     What  then  ?    Ho,  Ho ! 
Come,  brother  bottle,  all  beauty  must  go. 
Here's  for  a  drunk ! 
Wennerbom's  full,  that  gives  him  spunk!" 

So  he  falls  asleep  and  dreams  at  his  ease; 
Filtering  through  the  compassionate  trees, 


POET  WENNERBOM  81 

The  light  falls  on  Poet  Wennerbom, 

And  the  chestnuts  kindly  rain  down  their  bloom. 

On  the  empty  flask 

A  swarm  of  insects  hurry  or  bask. 

Rich  and  pure  is  his  happiness: 

His  soul  is  tortured  by  no  distress, 

He  feels  not  remorse  for  shame  and  sin, 

To  the  dreamland  of  youth  he  has  entered  in; 

He  slumbers  deep,  — 

'Tis  well  for  the  poet  to  fall  asleep. 


A  SPRING-TIME   SWEETHEART 
(If  I  had  had  one) 

A  gleam  of  sunlight  crowned  her, 
As  though  the  morn  were  flinging 
Its  gold  on  her  that  day; 
Her  skirt  was  rippling  round  her 
Like  wild-rose  bushes  clinging, 
And  lilacs  white  that  sway. 

She  came,  her  cheeks  all  glowing 
With  the  soft  breeze's  blowing, 
And  with  the  lime-hot  bath  too 
Of  looks  that  neighbors  gave  her 
From  peep-hole,  crack  and  door; 
While  she  gazed  back  in  wrath  too 
And,  blushing  more  than  ever, 
Grew  prettier  than  before. 
82 


A  SPRING-TIME  SWEETHEART        83 

Her  bold  bright  eyes  gave  token 
That  all  her  warmth  of  being 
Was  bursting  from  control; 
That  all  the  buds  had  broken, 
And  all  the  brooks  were  freeing 
Their  clamor  in  her  soul. 

I  felt  that  all  the  spring  then, 
With  larks  upon  the  wing  then 
And  wind-flowers  at  her  feet  there, 
Came  running  glad  and  fleet  there 
To  seize  and  capture  me; 
And  kissed  me,  gently  laying 
Her  breast  to  mine,  and  saying : 
"Come,  love  me,  be  near  me, 
And  take  me  up  and  bear  me 
This  instant  home  with  thee!" 


MARAUDERS 

The  first  of  them   is   Elsa,    and   Greta    is  the 

second, 

Right  well  the  two  have  reckoned 
The  force  of  their  valor  upon  me. 
Small  hurricanes  are  they,  that  come  and  go 

but  never  tarry, 
Like  modern  Goths  and   Vandals  they  raid  me 

and  they  harry, 
Until  they  despoil  me  utterly. 

For  Greta's  eyes  are  smiling,  each  one  an  artful 

beggar, 

Most  shrewd  they  look,  and  eager 
For  mischief  and  candy  no  doubt, 
And  lips  has  she  to  quarrel  and  vex  —  the  little 

rover !  — 

84 


MARAUDERS  85 

Such  merry  lips  as  Greta's  you  never  could  dis- 
cover, 
So  boldly  they  purse  themselves  and  pout. 

And  Elsa's  eyes  are  large,  confiding  and  caress- 
ing, 

But  never  quite  suppressing 

A  deep-seated  appetite  for  cake, 

And  lips  has  she,  demure  and  yet  so  very  sly 
too, 

They  never  can  conceal,  however  they  may 
try  to, 

That  love  of  fruit  is  always  awake. 

And  both  of  them  have  feet  and  legs  for  nimble 

tripping, 
And  waltzing  and  skipping 

Most  gracefully  in  stockings  and  shoes; 

% 
And  both  can  dance  about  till  it  pleases  and 

provokes  one, 


86  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  both  have  naughty  little  hands  to  fondle 

and  to  coax  one, 
And  nails  which  as  claws  they  can  use. 

They   scratch   and    laugh   and   mock   me,   they 

choke  me  in  the  scrimmage, 
And  are  the  very  image 
Of  Cupid  in  a  trouser-skirt ; 
And  if  they  are  Vandals,  they  are  cunning  little 

Vandals, 
If   hurricanes,    then    hurricanes    that    come   on 

fairy  sandals 
In  full  daylight  and  cause  no  hurt. 

I    walk    along    half-musing,    when    something 

nearly  trips  me, 

And  holds  my  leg  and  nips  me, 
And  pulls  my  coat  before  I  can  flee; 
There's  fumbling  at  my  pocket  as  if  there  were 

a  crab  there, 


MARAUDERS  87 

I  snatch  at  it  and  sure  enough  a  girlie's  hand 

I  grab  there, 
The  smallest  and  prettiest  that  could  be. 

Then  Elsa  and  Greta  and  eight  more  small 
princesses, 

All  stout  vexatious  lasses 

Who  seem  to  shirk  their  lessons  at  will, 

Rush  up  and  with  the  noise  of  their  battle-cry 
astound  me, 

And  dance  the  schottische,  polka  and  horn- 
pipe all  around  me, 

While,  thunderstruck,  I  stand  there  still. 

Then    straightway    sounds    the    onset,    there's 

patting  and  stroking 
And  pushing  and  joking 
Of  how  I  am  a  great  millionnaire 
Who  simply  overflows  with  streams  of  useless 

money, 


88  SELECTED  POEMS 

And    next    they    shout    in    chorus,    as    if   they 

thought  it  funny : 
"There's     fruit    at     gardener    Lind's    by    the 

square!" 

I  fight  then  like  a  man,  but  the  Vandals  are 

victorious, 

And  laugh  and  rush  uproarious 
Around  the  corner  swift  as  the  wind; 
They  leave  me  there  disarmed,   despoiled   and 

wholly  beaten, 
And  guzzle  till  they're  sick  with  the  cherries  they 

have  eaten 
At  the  fruit-shop  of  gardener  Lind. 

If  on  my  couch   at  home  my  senses  I  would 

muffle, 

I  hear  a  stealthy  shuffle, 
And  ask  myself  what  sounds  are  these, 
Until  the  door  flies  back  and   I'm  summoned 

to  surrender, 


MARAUDERS  89 

I    struggle    and    I    wrestle  —  alas  I     my    chance 

is  slender 
With  such  a  horde  of  wild  enemies. 

They  scramble  and  they  clamber  and  violently 

seize  me, 

They  pinch  me  and  they  squeeze  me, 
And  tie  me  to  the  rack  forthwith, 
Where  Greta  and  her  band  soon  put  me  to  the 

question 
And  wring  from  me  my  pennies  to  ruin  their 

digestion 
On  sweets  bought  of  candy-man  Smith. 

So  goes  it  every  day,  and  my  funds  are  growing 

scanty, 

For  coppers  run  a-plenty 
In  many  a  little  rill  from  my  purse; 
And  if  I  dare  refuse  them,  they  make  the  wriest 

faces, 


90  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  scout  the  stingy  churl  with  contemptuous 

grimaces, 
And  punish,  and  slap  me  and  disperse. 

But  if  they  stay   away  and  leave  me  at  my 

leisure, 

I  lie  there  in  displeasure, 
With  lifeless  books  I  soon  grow  bored, 
Till  mournfully  I  think  of  the  battles  fierce  and 

strong  then, 

And  furtively  for  Elsa  and  Greta  do  I  long  then, 
For  them  and  all  their  Vandal  horde. 


THE  KING'S  MISTRESS 

i 
INGALILL 

Ingalill,  Ingalill,  sing  me  a  song, 

My  spirit  is  lonely  and  life's  way  is  long, 

And  my  spirit  with  sorrow  must  wrestle. 
Ingalill,  Ingalill,  sing  me  a  song, 
It  soundeth  so  sweet  and  consoling  and  strong, 

So  kind  in  my  desolate  castle. 

Ingalill,  Ingalill,  sing  me  a  song, 

And  half  of  my  kingdom  to  you  shall  belong, 

With  the  silver  and  gold  in  my  castle. 
My  gold's  my  delight  but  my  kingdom's  my 

care; 
Who  takes  half  my  kingdom,  my  sorrow  must 

share, 
But  need  you  fear  with  sorrow  to  wrestle? 


92  SELECTED  POEMS 

II 

"SiGH,  SIGH,  RUSHES!" 

Sigh,  sigh,  rushes/ 
Moan,  waves,  moan! 
Can  ye  not  tell  where  Ingalill, 
Sweet  Ingalill  has  gone? 

She  cried  with  the  cry  of  a  wounded  duck 

And  sank  into  the  sea.  — 
That  was  last  year  when  spring  was  green 

With  the  promise  of  joys  to  be. 

She  had  wakened  the  wrath  of  the  towns-folk 

there, 
An  evil  wrath  that  she  might  not  bear. 

She  wakened  their  wrath  by  her  goods  and  gold, 
The  gifts  of  her  royal  lover  bold. 

With    thorns    they    have    pierced    mine    eyeballs 

through, 
With  mud  have  defiled  the  lily's  dew. 


THE  KING'S  MISTRESS  93 

Then  sing,  oh,  sing  your  song  of  griff, 
Ye  little  waves,  for  my  heart's  relief! 
Sigh,  sigh,  rushes! 
Moan,  waves,  moan! 


A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA 

My  life's  on  the  wane  and  I'm  spent  with  work, 
A  wretched  and  ignorant  renegade  clerk, 
A  runaway  fled  from  his  order  afar,  a 
Brother  condemned  by  the  chapter  of  Skara. 

I'm  now  but  an  old  and  broken  man, 
Although  from  the  shame  of  the  church's  ban 
For  manslaughter  and  for  heresy 
The  king  has  pardoned  and  set  me  free. 

Because  Lars  Kanik  I  smote  in  wrath, 
The  brethren  hastened  to  dog  my  path. 
They  hunted  me  like  a  wolf  in  the  wood; 
That  I  was  a  monk,  that  alone  was  good. 

A  surly  and  obstinate  monk  was  I, 
That  many  a  pull  took  on  the  sly  — 
94 


A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA  95 

To  pay  my  pains  —  from  the  abbot's  tun, 

And  sinned  most  vilely  with  a  nun. 

My  muscles  were  iron;    I'd  frequent 

The  village  inn  where  the  wastrels  went, 

I  joined  with  a  cowboy  and  fidder  crew, 

And  Lars  Canonicus  I  slew. 

But  misery  came  of  those  evil  days, 

In  a  foreign  land  I  berued  my  ways, 

For   I    ate   the    husks    whence    the    swine    had 

turned, 
Like  the  tale  in  the  Vulgate  I  once  had  learned. 

I  did  not  sink  into  sin's  dread  clutch,  — 

My  fellow-mortals  I  loved  too  much,  — 

But  I  had  a  stormy  road  to  go, 

As  when  the  blasts  of  the  tempest  blow 

A  fisherman's  boat  on  a  rugged  shore 

And  leave  him  there  battered  and  wounded  sore 

Until  at  last  he  feels 

That  his  torn  body  heals. 


96  SELECTED  POEMS 

They  shut  me  up  in  a  gloomy  cell, 

Then  drove  me  out  with  beasts  to  dwell  — 

Wild  beasts  that  catch  with  cruel  claw, 

And  tear  their  prey,  and  bite  and  gnaw. 

They  taught  me  hatred,  sin  and  deceit, 

While  bitterness  was  my  drink  and  meat. 

I  felt  myself  doomed  to  death  and  damnation, 

In  Satan's  power  beyond  salvation; 

Condemned  to  hell  at  the  Judgment  Day, 

I  lusted  now  to  burn  and  slay. 

But  the  sigh  of  the  woods,  the  voice  of  the 

stream, 

The  beauty  of  morning's  wakening  gleam, 
And  the  weeping  sound  of  the  autumn  rain,  — 
These  brought  me  back  to  love  again. 

And  dew  and  the  brooks  and  the  bird's  fresh  song, 
Meadow  flowers,  and  the  elk  as  he  bounded  along, 
And  the  squirrel's  joy  in  the  top  of  the  fir 
Set  life  and  hope  in  my  veins  astir, 


A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA  97 

Gave  self-respect  once  more 
And  taught  a  rich  new  lore. 

It  is  not  true,  the  ancient  story 

That  some  are  shut  out  from  heaven's  glory, 

For  every  soul  may  enter  free; 

Not  as  sheep  and  goats,  but  alike  are  we. 

There  is  no  good  man  so  firm  in  right 

That  he  may  trust  in  his  virtue's  might, 

Nor  is  there  a  sinner  so  foul  within 

That  in  anguish  of  heart  he  may  trust  in  sin. 

Then  do  not  boast,  my  brother, 

Nor  chide  and  judge  another. 

And  he  who  sits  so  mighty  at  Rome, 
He  must,  like  me,  endure  his  doom 
With  many  a  monk  and  titled  priest 
And  learned  doctors,  most  and  least. 
The  noble  who  sits  so  proud  in  his  tower 
Must  likewise  be  taught  of  sorrow's  power, 
H 


98  SELECTED  POEMS 

On  kings  the  weight  of  sorrow  falls, 
Yea,  emperors  its  might  appalls; 
All  these  may  go  astray,  — 
But  wherefore  chide  for  aye  ? 

Thus  o'er  the  earth  the  people  roam, 
And  not  a  man  knows  whence  we  come, 
And  none  knows  whither  the  way  will  lead 
And  none  knows  what  is  life,  indeed. 
And  yet  beyond  the  clouds  of  strife 
There  dawns  far  off  a  better  life; 
Where  none  is  evil,  none  is  good, 
But  all  as  brothers  breast  the  flood, 
Each  lending  each  a  hand 
While  struggling  to  the  strand. 

In  this  world  here  my  honor  is  gone, 
I  sit  in  the  darksome  woods  alone, 
And  never  shall  better  days  be  mine. 
But  I'll  not  grieve  nor  yet  repine: 
The  birds  mount  gayly  toward  the  skies, 


A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA  99 

With  every  morn  the  sun  doth  rise, 
The  birch-tree  buds  anew,  — 
Why  should  not  I  hope  too  ? 

Perhaps,  when  a  thousand  years  have  flown 
Like  clouds  over  cottage  and  castle  blown, 
A  rider  may  wend  through  the  forest  here, 
May  tether  his  horse  to  a  birch-tree  near, 
May  open  the  door,  peep  in  and  see 
My  hermit  den  and  its  misery. 
And  he  may  notice  this  message  then, 
On  parchment  writ  with  a  goose-quill  pen. 

Then  will  he  say:    "So  long  ago 
Did  this  man  learn  what  we  all  now  know, 
And  foresee  the  age  that  upon  this  earth 
After    long,    long    strife    has    been    brought    to 

birth  ?  - 

And  yet  was  he  of  yore  a 
Poor  banished  Monk  of  Skara!" 


SONGS  OF  KING  ERIC 

NOTE.  —  Eric  XIV,  son  of  Gustavus  Vasa,  was  one 
of  the  most  romantic  of  Swedish  kings.  Of  a  highly 
poetic  temperament,  he  was  at  one  time  a  suitor  for 
the  hand  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  Later,  however, 
his  ambition  led  him  into  war  with  Denmark,  in  which 
he  was  defeated.  He  was  dethroned  by  his  brother 
John  and  finally  murdered  in  prison,  1577.  A  pas- 
sionate but  inconstant  lover,  Eric's  most  sincere 
attachment  seems  to  have  been  for  Karin,  a  beautiful 
girl  who  followed  him  to  prison  when  he  was  overcome 
by  age  and  disgrace. 

I 
To  KARIN,  AFTER  SHE  HAD  DANCED 

Of  noble  blossoms  will  I  wind  thee 

A  wreath  to  crown  thy  beauteous  hair, 

And  of  my  love  too  will  I  bind  thee 
A  garland  thou  for  aye  shalt  wear. 
100 


SONGS  OF  KING  ERIC  101 

With  my  two  hands  myself  will  twine  it 

About  the  head  so  dear  to  me, 
To  crown  thy  gray  hair  and  enshrine  it 

In  days  when  I  no  more  shall  be. 

As  in  the  dance  my  love  was  gliding, 
How  fair !  how  young !  but  never  gay,  — 

So  in  this  wreath  a  thorn  is  hiding, 
And  poison  taints  the  flowers  alway. 

I  see  a  drop  of  blood  now  quiver 
And  o'er  my  darling's  forehead  flow, 

Alas!  there's  pain  in  all  I  give  her; 
My  gift  brings  ill,  my  wreath  brings  woe. 

II 

To  KARIN,  IN  PRISON 

Wet  me  with  tears,  oh,  judge  not  by  rules,  — 
Fool  that  I  am,  a  fool  among  fools. 


102  SELECTED  POEMS 

Fair  was  my  crown  and  my  kingdom  was  great, 
I  was  a  king,  —  yea,  an  emperor's  mate. 

Splintered     my     kingdom     and     shattered     my 

crown, 
In  this  dark  cell  for  my  sins  I  atone. 

I'd  loyal  subjects  and  kinsmen  and  friends, 
Blood  of  my  kinsfolk  now  darkens  my  hands. 

Faithful  my  men  went  to  war  with  my  foes, 
Faithful  drew  sword  when  the  battle-tide  rose. 

Fair  to  the  market  the  peasant  girls  came, 
Up  to  my  castle  I  dragged  them  to  shame. 

Last  I  found  you,  when  misfortune  was  rife; 
Spring  was  despoiled  to  give  autumn  new  life. 

Oft  have  you  poured  bitter  tears  on  my  breast; 
Judge  me  not,  judge  me  not,  —  cover  the  rest ! 


SONGS  OF  KING  ERIC  103 

in 

KING  ERIC'S  LAST  SONG 

What  use  to  shout,  what  help  in  weeping, 
King  John  and  God  have  me  in  keeping. 
King  John  has  bound  me  fast  in  chains, 
But  by  God's  grace  this  hope  remains: 
Thy  body  is  thy  prison  cell, 
And  would'st  thou  there  no  longer  dwell, 
Jump  and  dash  out  thy  foolish  brains! 


WINTER  NIGHT 

Riding  more  sedately, 
Let  us  view  the  stately 
Forest  castle  white: 
Marble  is  the  flooring; 
Branches,  whitely  soaring, 
Rise  toward  heaven's  height. 

Not  a  flake  is  stirred  here, 
Not  a  note  is  heard  here 
Of  the  singing  storm; 
Snow  each  nook  encumbers, 
And  beneath  it  slumbers 
Summer's  frozen  form. 

Icicles  are  gleaming 
Now  above  the  dreaming 
104 


WINTER   NIGHT  105 

Season's  deep  repose, 
Curtains  whitely  hover 
Her  chill  couch  to  cover, 
Watchful  pines  enclose. 

Moonbeams  with  a  bitter 
Cold  metallic  glitter 
Light  the  lonely  hall, 
And  from  all  the  darkling 
Corners  comes  a  sparkling 
As  of  diamonds  all. 

Stars,  like  tears  congealing, 

Stud  the  castle  ceiling, 

Rich  with  filigree. 

Shadows,  faintly  glimmering, 

Cross  the  wide  and  shimmering 

Chamber  silently. 


"I  WOULD   THAT  I  WERE—" 

I  would  that  I  were  in  India  Land  — 
The  India  of  my  dreams, 
With  pearls  for  gravel  and  rubies  for  sand, 
And  palaces  which  at  the  turn  of  a  hand 
Should  bloom  by  her  sacred  streams. 

I  would  that  my  house  were  of  smooth  bamboo 
In  the  shade  of  a  palm-tree  grove, 
Where  the  cooling  breath  of  the  west-wind  blew, 
And  the  choir  of  the  jungle  would  chant  anew 
Of  hunting,  of  strife  and  love. 

A  girl  as  brown  as  mahogany 
With  silk  upon  bosom  and  hips 
Would  sit  half  bent  in  the  palm-grove's  lee  — 
I'd  lay  my  head  on  her  delicate  knee 
And  list  to  her  murmuring  lips. 
106 


"I  WOULD  THAT  I  WERE—"        107 

Then  soft  as  the  whisper  of  twilight  she'd  tell 

Of  the  pilgrimage  of  the  soul, 

Of  Karma's  fight  with  the  fiends  of  hell, 

And  how  at  the  end  the  dead  rest  well 

In  Nirvana,  the  strange  far  goal. 

Oh,  to  loose  my  soul  from  these  leaden  skies, 

This  wakeful,  tormented  strand, 

From  cold  and  the  scorn  of  withered  eyes, 

To  dwell  in  that  dreamy  paradise, 

A  native  of  India  Land  ! 


FYLGIA 

Fylgia,  Fylgia,  do  not  flee! 

When  I'm  all  on  fire  to  enfold  you. 

Timid  one,  exquisite,  shun  not  me ! 

Though  with  stupid  thoughts  I  behold  you,  — 

You  whose  form  is  so  pure  it  seems 

To  hover  in  beauty  and  starry  beams, 

Till  it  melts  in  the  light 

Before  my  sight; 

As  near  me  it  flies, 

Yet  far 

As  the  distant,  distant  skies,  — 

Unapproachable,  coveted  one  that  you  are, 

Maiden  of  longed-for  loveliness, 

Spirit  attired  in  the  silvery  sheen  of  life's  most 

ethereal  dress, 
Whose  happy  cheek  is  aglow  with  love's  pinkest 

wild-rose  caress ! 

100 


FYLGIA  109 

Fylgia,  Fylgia,  do  not  flee! 

Timid  one,  exquisite,  shun  not  me! 

My  longed-for  loveliness, 

You  that  in  nightly  visions  bless 

With  consolation  for  the  day's  distress! 


MAN  AND  WOMAN 

To  Eve  the  wrathful  Adam  said : 
"You  greedy,  you  disgusting  jade, 
For  you  I  toil  and  get  no  sleep, 
Who  led  me  into  sin  how  deep ! 
You  plucked  from  the  forbidden  tree 
The  cursed  fruit  and  gave  it  me. 
Our  life  of  innocence  you  blighted, 
Your  naked  loins  to  lust  invited, 
Your  beauty  sunk  me  in  the  fire 
Of  bestial  and  blind  desire. 
'Twas  you  from  Eden  barred  me  out, 
With  fiery  walls  now  ringed  about. 
Your  tongue's  a  serpent  from  which  drips 
All  evil  through  your  hateful  lips, 
And  like  a  fang,  when  I  would  eat, 
Your  speech  pours  poison  on  my  meat, 
no 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  in 

If  then  the  will  to  smite  o'ertakes  me, 
I  look,  and  all  my  strength  forsakes  me. 
A  cringing  dog  you've  made  of  me  — 
I  loathe,  I  loathe  you  utterly. 
Accursed  be  you!" 

The  woman  smiled  in  her  disdain 
And  mocking  answered  him  again : 
"Disgusting  brute,  I  leave  with  you 
Your  names,  where  they  are  rightly  due. 
You  are  the  serpent,  for  you  swell 
With  evils,  though  with  you  they  dwell 
In  silence;    you,  the  poisonous  tooth; 
And  you  the  dog  with  greedy  mouth. 
You  hate  but  never  dare  to  break 
The  vessel  where  your  thirst  you  slake, 
To  get  my  body  for  your  lust 
You  lick  my  hand  and  cringe  in  dust! 
I  bore  with  many  a  weary  smart 
Your  body's  fruit  beneath  my  heart, 


112  SELECTED  POEMS 

Your  child  I  nourish  with  my  blood,  — 
In  pain  and  shame  I  give  it  food. 
Accursed  be  you!" 

He  clenched  his  fist  and  struck  a  blow 
So  hard  the  blood  began  to  flow 
Adown  her  cheek.     She  bit  her  teeth, 
Fled  far  and  sat  herself  beneath 
A  bank  by  the  Euphrates'  side, 
Where  she  might  watch  its  whirling  tide, 
And  mourn  and  grieve  and  dumbly  brood 
In  dreams  of  hate  with  vengeful  mood. 
Meanwhile  the  man  had  thrown  him  down 
And  dug  the  earth  with  grovelling  crown, 
The  while  his  trembling  limbs  gave  token 
Of  sorrow  for  his  words  ill-spoken. 
In  soul  he  saw  her  bleed  again, 
Beheld  her  features  wrenched  with  pain, 
And  wept  until  his  eyes  were  red 
For  all  the  cruel  drops  he'd  shed. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  113 

Remorse  awakened  in  his  mind 

With  memories  of  how  good  and  kind 

She'd  been,  preparing  day  by  day 

His  food  and  helping  every  way, 

Cherishing  him  both  soon  and  late, 

And  comforting  through  love  and  hate. 

He  thought  of  how  her  eyes  would  dim 

With  sadness  at  harsh  words  from  him, 

How  lovingly  her  hand  would  lead 

The  son  he  gave  her,  with  what  heed 

When  evening  darkened  she  would  strew 

On  the  dry  grass  a  bed  for  two, 

And  how  then,  as  the  latest  light 

Of  sunset  faded  into  night, 

Their  limbs  would  twine  in  sweet  embrace 

With  joy  and  fear  before  God's  face. 

Thus  Adam  thought,  and  rising  up 
To  seek  her,  saw  how  drop  by  drop 
Her  blood  had  fallen,  saw  the  trace 

i 


U4  SELECTED  POEMS 

Her  steps  had  made  with  wandering  pace, 
Till  by  the  river  he  descried  her 
With  Cain,  his  little  son,  beside  her. 
With  deep  distress  his  bosom  heaved, 
At  once  he  suffered,  hated,  grieved. 
Then  Adam  went  to  her  and  spoke: 
"Why  did  I  strike  you  such  a  stroke? 
Your  cheek  is  bleeding,  dear;    I'll  go 
Fetch  water  from  the  stream  below. 
With  healing  herbs  I'll  ease  the  smart 
My  blow  has  caused  within  your  heart. 
Your  grief  I'll  grieve  for,  and  I'll  share 
The  heavy  burdens  you  must  bear. 
I  would  not  dwell  alone  like  this, 
Accurst  and  driven  from  Eden's  bliss; 
The  joy  and  grief  of  man  and  woman, 
Yea,  all  our  hard  life,  is  in  common. 
Each  other  living  thing  we  see 
Around  us  is  an  enemy." 
So  Adam  spoke  his  inmost  thought, 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  115 

But  Eve  was  still  and  answered  not. 
And  Adam,  too,  in  dumb  distress 
Sank  down  his  head  in  bitterness. 

But  when  once  more  with  sudden  change 
He  would  have  seized  on  fresh  revenge, 
The  woman  yielded,  turned  and  pressed 
Close  to  him,  then  her  arms  she  placed 
Upon  his  shoulders,  clung  there  fast 
About  his  neck,  and  spoke  at  last: 
"I  would  not  ever  blame  and  chide  you, 
Nor  see  you  weep  and  so  deride  you. 
Let  both  forgive  whate'er  may  grieve  us, 
Since  He,  our  Lord,  does  not  forgive  us! 
We  are  condemned  to  sin  forever, 
To  quarrel  oft,  agreeing  never; 
To  dog  and  bitch  we  two  are  kin; 
Then  let  us  sin  and  loathe  our  sin, 
Endure  together  fate's  decree, 
And  suffer  all  life's  misery, 


ii6  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  hate  and  quarrel  and  contend 
And  love  until  the  world  shall  end." 

Thus  then  the  man  and  woman  drew 
Together  and  their  whole  lives  through 
Continued  so,  and  multiplied 
(An  ancient  writ  declares)  and  died. 
But  thus,  while  Time  pursues  his  flight 
With  mighty  wing-beats  day  and  night, 
Abideth  man's  and  woman's  fate 
From  Adam  to  the  present  date. 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT 

I  slept  and  I  dreamed 

Of  the  Orient  Land, 

Where  treasure  outstreamed 

From  the  Sun-God's  hand 

Over  all  of  the  fortunate  region  around, 

As,  when  a  volcano  has  shattered  the  ground, 

The  fruits  of  the  earth  abound. 

I  dreamed  of  apple-trees  planted  thickly, 
Of  streams  by  old  forests  gliding  quickly, 
Of  cherry  groves  and  of  currant  bushes 
In  lonely  dales  where  the  torrent  rushes, 
Of  wheat  that  springs  at  its  own  sweet  will 
In  desert  valleys  where  all  is  still, 
Of  hop-vines  deep  in  the  woods  that  cling 
And  from  trunk  to  trunk  their  tendrils  fling,  — 
117 


ii8  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  of  pastures  that  spread 

By  some  waterfall, 

Whence  cattle  are  led 

By  the  boys  to  the  stall, 

When  the  dew  is  sprinkled  at  evening  late, 

And  there  amid  buckets  little  and  great 

The  wives  and  the  mothers  wait. 

There  man  is  strong  and  woman  is  soft, 
And  youth  is  nimble  to  bound  aloft; 
And  all  are  naked,  both  high  and  low, 
From  harlot  to  virgin  pure  as  snow. 
But  if  'mid  the  throng  there's  a  garment  gleaming 
Gay-hued  around  hips  or  loose  hair  streaming, 
It  does  but  show  that  a  maiden  there 
Would  seem  to  her  lover  more  sweet  and  fair. 

Where  the  curving  swirls 
Of  the  river  flow, 
A  smoke-wreath  curls 
From  the  tents  below; 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT          119 

And  there  in  repose,  while  the  little  ones  play 
And  whimper  and  smile  and  toddle  away, 
Sit  the  old  folk,  the  silver-gray. 

But  overlooking  the  mist,  in  radiant  light, 
The  king's  house  stands  on  a  rocky  height. 
On  the  cliffs  at  the  time  of  midsummer  heat 
In  full  assembly  the  people  meet, 
And  the  king  gives  judgment  from  his  throne, 
And  thinks  for  his  people,  and  talks  with  the 

sun, 
And    the    sun    sows    down    on    him    knowledge 

rare 
Of  all  things  that  shall  be  and  are  and  were. 

II 

Behold !   through  the  forest  a  youth  roams  free, 
And  a  bolder  youth  there  never  could  be; 
His  blood  is  as  surf  when  the  March  wind  raves, 
For  strife  he  craves, 


120  SELECTED  POEMS 

No  feat  is  too  daring  for  such  as  he. 

The  mightiest  wrestlers  and  those  who  cast 

The  javelin  farthest  he  has  surpassed; 

He  openly  kissed  the  prettiest  maid 

When  the  dancers  paused  to  rest  in  the  shade, 

While  her  suitors  looked  on  aghast. 

I  saw  in  my  dream  how  glad  and  strong 

Was  his  every  stride  as  he  paced  along, 

With  freedom  in  every  line  displayed; 

While  upon  his  lips  was  a  mystery  laid, 

For  the  secret  grace 

Of  the  gods'  high  race 

In  their  scion  was  there  betrayed. 

With  joyous  foot-step  the  young  man  strays 
Down  the  wood's  wild  ways; 
Then  stands  and  smiles,  when  insects  crawl 
And  threaten  his  toes  with  their  nippers  small, 
He  jests  with  the  cuckoos,  he  teases  the  thrushes, 
Then  for  ease  he  follows  a  trail; 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT          121 

He  rests  on  a  ledge  by  the  lake-side  rushes, 
Watches  a  fish  leap  with  flashing  tail, 
And  falls  on  his  knees  by  the  brink, 
Joins  his  hands  and  stoops  to  drink. 

I  saw  in  my  dream  that  his  face  grew  bright 
With  joy  as  the  image  met  his  sight,  — 
This  youth  of  race  divine 
Saw  there  his  beauty  shine. 

Ill 

Slim  small  feet  now  on  tip-toe 

Slowly,  slyly  toward  him  go, 

Now  they  scurry,  now  they  pause, 

Not  a  sound  they  make,  because 

He  must  never  hear  or  know       « 

That  slim  small  feet  now  toward  him  go. 

There  behind  a  tree  are  smiling 
Happy  eyes  with  look  beguiling, 


122  SELECTED  POEMS 

Shoulders  tremble  as  in  doubt 
Like  a  timid  lamb,  until, 
Cautiously  and  slyly  still, 
See!  a  girl  slips  out. 

IV 

And  with  that  like  the  wind  apace 

She  throws  her  arms  round  the  hunter's  face 

And  has  covered  his  eyes, 

And  exults  in  her  catch.     Haha!  and  heehee! 

He  can  never  get  free 

No  matter  how  hard  he  tries. 

"Stupid  One,  look  where  your  pride 
Has  brought  you ! 
Guess!  of  all  those  you  defied 
Who  has  caught  you  ?" 

And  she  pulls  him  about 

And   pinches  and   beats  him  to  make  him  cry 
out 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT          123 

And  to  frighten  him  well  for  her  whim, 

And  she  plagues  him  and  tortures  his  back  with 

her  knees, 

But  such  torments  as  these 
Are  as  love-bed  caresses  to  him. 

* 

Blind,  he  struggles  to  get  loose, 
Gropes  and  guesses:    "Pull  and  Tear 
Are  your  names,  or  Beat  and  Bruise, 
Pinch  and  Scratch  —  unhand  me  there!" 

With  a  laugh  and  a  skirl 

He  was  free,  he  sprang  up,  he  had  captured  the 

girl 

And  he  held  her  tight 

That  with  kisses  his  mouth  might  be  sated  quite. 
And  she  clung  there  at  first, 
Then  whimpered  and  then  into  sobs  she  burst, 
And  she  sought  for  his  look 
Till  a  gleam  of  his  innermost  soul  she  took. 


124  SELECTED  POEMS 

At  last,  as  the  buds  of  an  orient  rose 

Their  hidden  leaves  from  the  sheath  unclose 

At  the  touch  of  the  sun  and  the  soft  spring  air, 

So  lay  she,  naked,  dishevelled,  fair, 

Knees  parted  and  bosom  that  swelled  ever  higher 

To  answer  her  lover's  desire. 

v 

And  as  the  two  cotyledons  abide 
In  closest  union  folded  heart  to  heart 
Before  the  tiny  seed  has  burst  apart, 
So  lay  they,  hip  by  hip  and  side  by  side 
In  tender  wise  as  sister  might  by  brother, 
But  these  were  panting,  blushing  with  the  moil 
Of  love's  first  sudden,  unexpected  toil, 
With    tight-locked    arms    embracing    each    the 
other. 

But  with  the  light  that  did  not  cease  to  pour 
From  ever-shining  realms  of  happiness 


A  DREAM  OF  THE  ORIENT          125 

Came  Joy,  the  Sun-God's  winged  ambassador 
The  loving  union  of  the  pair  to  bless, 
And  he,  as  sunbeams  through  the  forest  glide, 
Descending,    touched    and    hallowed    o'er    and 

o'er 
This  godlike  son  of  mortals  and  his  bride. 


DREAMS  IN  HADES 

Once,  —  though     a     lethargy     oppressed     my 

brain,  — 

Lying  and  brooding,  eyelids  both  ajar, 
I  saw  a  pale  and  quivering  flame  of  light 
Flare  on  its  torch,  burn  slowly  down  again, 
Flicker  and  fail.     And  then  I  saw  a  star 
That  glimmered  softly  from  the  depths  of  night. 

The  moon  shone  in,  but  with  so  chill  a  beam 
Methought  'twas  like  St.  Elmo's  fire  in  bloom 
Upon  some  mast  o'er  darkened  waves  below, 
Like  phosphor-wood  too  or  the  moss-fed  gleam 
Of  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  or  when  above  a  tomb 
On  St.  John's  Eve  we  see  a  fitful  glow. 

The  air  was  like  to  earth  which,  thinning,  tends 
To  rise  and  float  as  vapor;    it  was  dim 
126 


DREAMS  IN  HADES  127 

And  thick  and  full  of  shadowy  spectral  things. 
'Twas  as  when  light  with  darkness  meets  and 

blends,  — 

A  druid  sheen,  unnatural  and  grim, 
Such  as  an  ancient  tale  of  witchcraft  brings. 

Dark  forms  I  saw  in  that  strange  atmosphere, 
Dead  races  of  mankind  that  seemed  to  bide 
With  trustful  expectation,  rows  on  rows, 
Until  the  light  of  morning  should  appear; 
Silently  there  they  slumbered  side  by  side, 
Layer  by  layer  in  their  dream-repose. 

Dimply  as  ocean-surges  half-suppressed 
I  heard  the  hum  of  myriad  voices  rise, 
Muffled  as  tones  from  muted  harp-string  sped; 
I  heard  a  murmur  wash  from  east  to  west, 
Ascending,  falling,  —  questions  and  replies  — 
Which  rolled  like  swelling  billows  to  my   bed. 


128  SELECTED  POEMS 

II 

Through  the  sounds  I  heard  there 
Ran  a  rhythmic  sway, 
But  in  every  word  there 
Hidden  meanings  lay; 
Every  mystic  token, 
Every  searching  tone 
In  the  least  word  spoken, 
With  a  sigh  was  gone. 

What  my  cold  and  clever 
Mind  would  turn  to  thought, 
Foiled  my  best  endeavor, 
All  was  harsh  and  naught. 
Grief  would  seize  impulsive 
On  that  dream  of  death, 
And  a  throe  convulsive 
Rack  and  stop  its  breath. 
Thus  the  only  trophy 
Hades  left  with  me 


DREAMS  IN  HADES  129 

Was  a  crabbed  strophe 
Limping  wearily. 

Ill 

Clamor  of  Albion's  harp-strings, 
Murmurs  of  song  from  the  Northland, 
Beowulf's  story  or  Fingal's 
Heard  I  or  saw  or  perceived  there 
Glimmer  and  echo  through  Hades, 
Dim  and  yet  wondrously  lovely. 

Fables  of  Anglian  monarchs, 

Legends  of  witches  from  Denmark, 

Sad-hearted  Gaelic  traditions, 

Lays  of  the  Grail  and  of  Merlin 

Filled  mine  ears  full  with  the  strains  of 

Heathenish  bards  from  aforetime. 

Half-Christian  gnostic  magicians, 
Wise  men  who  dwelt  in  the  Eastland, 


1 30  SELECTED  POEMS 

Seers  with  druidical  knowledge 
Such  as  men  seek  in  the  hidden 
Depths  of  philosophers'  stones,  — 
These  filled  with  visions  my  chamber. 

IV 

I  saw  a  sleeper's 

Chin  uplifted 

From  which  a  black  beard 

O'er  silent  mail 

Flowed  soft  and  graceful, 

Above  the  collar 

Arose  a  visage 

Proud  and  pale. 

I  saw  a  singer's 
Mournful  forehead, 
Dark  hair  encircling 
The  features  all, 
And  vision-haunted 
Were  lips  that  erstwhile 


DREAMS  IN  HADES  131 

Had  sung  perchance  in 
King  Arthur's  hall. 

I  saw  his  death-dim 

Eyes  unclosing 

To  seek  for  some  one 

He  found  not  there; 

Once  more  they  shut  then, 

And  in  that  moment  < 

The  apparition 

Dissolved  in  air. 

But  for  long  after 
I  heard  soft  accents 
Telling  melodious 
The  old  sad  tale, 
A  half-forgotten 
Minstrel  saga 
From  some  far  Irish 
Or  English  dale. 


I3  2  SELECTED  POEMS 

Did  I  not  love  a  maiden 

Was  kind  and  fair  to  see  ? 

Did  I  not  sleep,  and,  dreaming,  lay 

My  head  upon  her  knee, 

While  the  red  sun  behind  the  oaks 

Was  sinking  mistily  ? 

And  had  I  not  a  bridal  night 
Graced  by  the  stars'  pale  sheen, 
While  o'er  us  leafy  branches  waved 
Their  canopy  of  green, 
And  soft  winds  blew  and  wavelets  beat 
The  reeds  and  rocks  between  ? 

She  gave  me  her  husband's  royal 
Gold  chain,  —  my  heart  knows  how 
She  fitted  it  about  my  head 
And  wound  it  o'er  my  brow; 
Her  soul  she  gave,  and  for  my  sake 
She  broke  her  holy  vow. 


DREAMS  IN  HADES  133 

Long,  long  our  eyes  were  forced  to  drink 

Of  bitter  tears  their  fill, 

What  time  with  melancholy  smile 

We  loved  through  good  and  ill, 

We  loved  in  sin  and  happiness, 

In  shame  and  joy  loved  still. 

At  length  I  heard  a  monkish  voice 
Proclaim  with  accents  dread : 
"Fair  is  this  life  to  look  upon, 
The  cheeks  of  love  are  red; 
But  now  thy  loved  one's  hue  is  pale, 
Osviva  now  is  dead. 

"Osviva  now  shall  slumber 

Full  long  in  cold  repose, 

For  slumber,  dreams,  and  death  at  last,  — 

All  these  she  freely  chose, 

And  unrepentant,  never 

To  heaven  her  spirit  goes." 


134  SELECTED  POEMS 

Monk,  'tis  but  tales  and  legends, 

By  fools  alone  'tis  said 

That,  till  the  latest  autumn 

Its  latest  leaf  has  shed, 

The  Great  Deliverer  visits  not 

The  city  of  the  dead. 

Have  ages  sighed  above  my  soul 
Since  I  was  dead  and  gone  ? 
I  feel  the  day  within  me, 
I  know  it  soon  will  dawn, 
And  The  Delivering  Spirit 
Will  free  us  every  one! 


Like  seas  in  motion 

When  the  winds  drive  them, 

Like  a  wave  speeding, 

The  whisper  went, 

To  tell  of  dawn  in 

The  night  of  Hades, 


DREAMS  IN  HADES  135 

A  mystic  message 
Of  wonderment. 

Soon  sank  the  murmur 
Deep  in  the  darkness, 
Where  on  dream-pinions 
My  spirit  soared, 
Then  the  strange  phantom 
Rose  again  toward  me,  — 
I  saw  the  vision, 
I  caught  the  word. 

Over  the  features 
Fell  for  a  moment 
A  gleam  of  brighter 
Light  than  before, 
But  it  was  soft  as 
A  ray  of  moonlight 
Falling  from  Life's  night 
Through  Hades*  door. 


"THERE  SHOULD  HAVE  BEEN  STARS—" 

There   should    have    been    stars   to   make   your 

brow  more  fair, 
Each  one  a  gem, 

Like  links  and  clasps  of  some  bright  diadem, 
Dull  gold  or  silver,  resting  on  your  hair, 
Whence  wavy  streamers  flow, 
Such  as  the  Northern  Lights  in  winter  midnight 

sow. 

Your  foot  was  delicate,  the  instep  slender; 
Lone  you  went  by, 

But  modest  was  your  mien  and  proudly  shy. 
Like  to  a  dream-spun  vision,  brightly  tender, 
Which  hovered  in  the  air, 

You    seemed    enfolded    all    in    starry    radiance 
rare. 


"THERE  SHOULD  HAVE  BEEN  STARS—"  137 

Music  and  sorrow  glimmered  around  your  face; 

But  wistful,  chill, 

The   song   that   scarcely   from   your   lips   could 

thrill. 
Nor   might  your  form,  though  moulded  all  of 

grace, 

Follow  your  spirit's  motion, 
To   show   its    free   delight   like   billows   on   the 

ocean. 

Your  head  was  bent,  a  reed  before  the  blast; 
Your  cheek  was  pale 
As  palest  flowers  in  a  woodland  vale; 
But  dark  as  is  the  vault  of  heaven  o'ercast 
With  deepest  shades  of  night 
Your   eyes,  that   sought   far   lands,  obscure   to 
mortal  sight. 

I  felt  in  you  the  grief  of  flickering  flame, 

Of  stifled  sighs, 

Yearning  toward  godhead  in  your  voice  and  eyes. 


138  SELECTED  POEMS 

You  were  as   a  singing-girl,   from  whom  there 

came 

A  whisper  but  no  song; 
Sick  were  you  'mid  the  sound,  and  weak  among 

the  strong. 

I  thought:  "How  rich  are  you  in  love,  in  pas- 
sion; 

Your  soul  might  warm 

All  joy,  all  beauty  in  its  fostering  charm. 

What  will  avail  your  wealth  ?  —  In  shameful 
fashion 

You'll  be  despoiled  of  men, 

Crushed  like  a  woodland  violet  in  a  robber's  den. 

"In  degradation  you  may  bend,  perchance, 
A  slave  or  worse, 

All  for  your  beauty  and  your  frailty's  curse. 
For  those  that    sweetliest    dream    and  mildliest 
glance, 


"THERE  SHOULD  HAVE  BEEN  STARS—"  139 

Most  brutally  they  must 

Be    trampled    to    the    earth    and    soiled    with 
dust." 

But  fortune  has  been  kind  to  you  thus  far: 

When  men  rejected ; 

Peris,  it  may  be,  have  your  ways  protected. 

For  me,  I  love  you  as  a  song,  a  star 

That  fades  with  morning's  ray, 

Or  as  a  lovely  legend  of  an  elder  day. 


"SEE  WHERE  THE   DREAMER  COMES" 

See  where  the  Dreamer  comes !  (they  said) : 
Turning  this  way  his  downcast  head. 

On  lonely  paths  he  wanders  far; 
He  is  not  as  we  others  are. 

He  dreams  that  —  curse  his  lying  dream  !  — 
Sun,  moon  and  stars  all  bow  to  him. 

He  is  our  father's  dearest  son : 

Come,  let  us  slay  him  and  have  done! 


140 


PRINCE  ALADDIN  OF  THE  LAMP 

The  luckless  Prince  Aladdin 
Has  now  no  lamp,  alas ! 
He  feels  beneath  his  mantle 
Where  heretofore  it  was. 
His  ring  he  seeks  amain,  too, 
And  finds  it  not  again,  too, 
For  now  no  ring  he  has. 
The  mighty  Prince  Aladdin 
Has  lost  his  wits  no  doubt, 
And  blindly  gropes  about. 

He  importunes  the  ether: 
"Come,  fairy  castle  mine, 
With  pearls  and  rubies  gleaming 
And  halls  forever  streaming 
With  white  and  golden  shine! 
141 


142  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  you,  ye  sprites,  fulfil  now 
This  task  with  heedful  care 
And  bring  me  to  my  will  now 
Princess  Bedrulbudour, 
The  moon-mild  maiden  rare!" 

So  reels  along  the  street  there 

Amid  the  thickest  press 

The  mighty  Prince  Aladdin 

In  ragged  helplessness : 

"Come  here  and  see  the  fun, 

Just  listen  to  his  pother; 

The  crazy  tailor's  son 

Thinks  he's  the  Sultan's  brother!" 

"Ye  tailors  and  ye  beggars, 
Ye  know  not  sprites  at  all. 
One  only  needs  to  beckon, 
One  only  needs  to  call: 
'Come  castle,  come,  come  here!"1 
He  fixes  then  his  eyes  on 


PRINCE  ALADDIN  OF  THE  LAMP     143 

The  blue  far-off  horizon 

Until  it  shall  appear. 

The  common  people  sneer: 

"Your  castle's  in  the  moon  there; 

Fly  up  and  you'll  be  soon  there!" 

Alack!    the  lamp's  poor  owner 

May  never  more  have  rest, 

Nor  may  he  trust  his  fortune 

Who  once  the  ring  possessed. 

He  feels  that  now  no  tittle 

Of  his  remaining  little 

Is  left  to  him  secure; 

Though  'tis  but  doubts  defeat  him, 

These  childish  errors  cheat  him 

Till  nothing  may  endure. 


The  lamp  is  high  creative  power, 
The  chiefest  strength  of  man; 
The  magic  ring  is  faith's  rich  dower, 
Wherewith  he  all  things  can. 


SO  GOES  THE  WORLD 

The  sea  is  raging,  the  storm-winds  blow, 
The  billows  are  rolling  ashen  gray. 
"Captain,  a  man  has  been  swept  away!" 
Ha,  so ! 

"  Captain,  you  still  may  save  him,  though." 
(The  sea  is  raging,  the  storm-winds  blow.) 
"Still  we  could  toss  him  a  rope  if  you  say." 
Ha,  so! 

(The  billfcws  are  rolling  ashen  gray.) 
"Captain,  he's  sunk,  he's  gone  down  for  aye!" 
Ha,  so! 
(The  sea  is  raging,  the  storm-winds  blow.) 


144 


IDEALISM  AND  REALISM 

I'm  sick  of  this  new-fangled  schism, 

This  earth-and-stars  dissension : 
Idealism  and  realism, 

Our  brain-devised  contention. 

'Tis  Art  when  mud  is  painted  right 

(Such  is  the  false  conclusion) ; 
While  heavenly  visions,  fair  and  bright, 

Forsooth,  are  cloud-illusion. 

But  though  the  box  be  gold,  yet  snuff 

Is  snuff — so  one  supposes;  — 
And   though  the  vase   be   cracked    and   rough, 

Still  roses  will  be  roses. 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES 

i 

In  some  obscure  old  magic-book 
I  came  on  this  direction : 

Standing  before  a  mirror,  look 
At  your  own  eyes'  reflection. 

And  if  no  face  but  yours  appear 
Upon  the  pupil's  curtain, 

Then  to  no  maiden  you  are  dear, 
And  you  love  none,  'tis  certain. 

But  if  within  your  heart  the  glow 
Of  passion's  hidden  fire  is, 

The  maiden's  face  will  surely  show 
Enshrined  within  your  iris. 

146 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EVES  147 

To  trust  in  such  a  trick  is  naught 

But  superstitious  error, 
And  yet  it  came  into  my  thought 

One  day  before  a  mirror. 

I  gazed  and  gazed,  and  saw  therein 

My  clownish  features  only; 
My  faded  cheek,  my  weary  grin 

Of  failure  blank  and  lonely, 

The  night  of  grief  that  overcast 
My  brow  with  dark  misprision,  — 

All  these  I  gazed  on  till  at  last 
I  saw  them  in  a  vision. 

I  saw  myself  and  cried  out :    "  Hey  ! 

You  daughter  of  my  mother, 
You're  like  a  counterfeit  display 

Of  your  unhappy  brother. 


148  SELECTED  POEMS 

"You  have  my  manner  to  the  life, 

As  one  are  we  most  truly; 
Come  Self,  I'll  take  you  then  to  wife 

And  raise  a  brood  unruly :  — 

"A  bloated  fry  of  songs  and  jokes 
And  thoughts  of  knavish  rancor, 

With  humor  like  to  death-knell  strokes, 
And  hope  a  long-lost  anchor !  — 

"Small  cherubs  they  with  clownish  mien, 
Like  to  their  father  only,  — 

His  faded  cheek,  his  weary  grin 
Of  failure  blank  and  lonely. 

"And  so  I'll  love  myself  no  doubt, 
Since  I've  no  girl  to  cherish, 

Until  at  last  the  flame  goes  out 
As  coals  in  ashes  perish. 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  149 

"I  am  in  truth  a  burnt-out  coal 

Of  hot  consuming  passion, 
I  feed  the  fire  with  alcohol 

In  artificial  fashion. 

"I  blaze  aloft  until  my  core 

Is  naught  at  all  but  ashes; 
I  want  to  leap,  I  must  have  more 

Than  these  poor  fitful  flashes." 

ii 

And  so,  with  drink  o'erladen, 
I  searched  from  morn  till  eve, 
Still  hoping  to  achieve 
The  much-desired  maiden. 

The  "joy-girl's"  air  appealing, 
Professionally  wise, 
Could  not  from  me  disguise 
Her  actual  want  of  feeling. 


150  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  winter-cold  as  fishes 

Fast  frozen  in  the  ice, 

If  any  dared  entice, 

Was  she  who  washed  the  dishes. 

Abashed,  I  sought  the  park  yet, 
Where  silken  veils  were  streaming 
And  summer  dresses  gleaming 
Like  flowers  in  the  market; 

Where  high-born  dames  a-plenty 
Raised  o'er  their  well-shod  feet 
And  insteps  fine  and  neat 
Their  skirts  with  manner  dainty. 

I  got  for  my  advances 
From  those  I  met  and  passed, 
Half  bold  and  half  downcast, 
The  very  sweetest  glances. 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  151 

I  followed  in  the  city 
The  skirt  that  best  revealed 
The  charms  that  it  concealed 
Of  limbs  and  ankles  pretty. 

The  figure  flowing  over, 
As  'twere,  with  woman's  might, 
'Twas  this  would  most  delight 
A  poor  and  needy  lover; 

The  look  that  freeliest  showered 
The  largest  rain  of  pence 
On  one,  all  indigence, 
Who  by  the  gutter  cowered. 

Then  shameless  as  a  battered 
Old  tramp,  whose  manner  says 
He  has  "seen  better  days," 
I  stood,  begrimed  and  tattered, 


152  SELECTED  POEMS 

Beside  the  curbstone.     Many 
A  girl  I  saw  go  by, 
And  tried  to  catch  her  eye 
While,  dumb,  I  begged  a  penny. 

"Ah,  give  to  a  poor  devil 
A  bit  of  bread  to  eat, 
A  little  piece  of  meat, 
And  he  will  thank  you  civil! 

"Give  him  a  week  in  mercy, 

A  day,  or  but  an  hour, 

To  taste  and  know  love's  power. 

You  won't  ?    Go  on,  then,  curse  ye ! 

"At  worst,  you  still  might  spare  me 
'     One  little  kiss,  to  show 
A  girl  once  long  ago 

X 

Was  happy  to  be  near  me." 

But  even  she  whose  favor 
Was  prodigally  shed, 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  153 

Who  gave  herself  as  bread 
To  any  that  might  crave  her, 

She  shook  her  head  for  answer 
And  said,  reluctantly : 
"Give  something,  you,  to  me, 
And  then  no  doubt  I  can,  sir." 

in 

But  in  a  window  near  the  City  Hall 
A  caliph's  castle  built  of  spice-cake  stood, 
All  roofed  with  chocolate  instead  of  wood, 
And  in  a  shallop  just  beneath  the  wall 
A  sugar  prince  most  delicately  played 
On  a  guitar  of  gilded  marchpane  made. 

Behind  the  castle  was  a  canvas  screen, 
And  over  that,  with  most  disconsolate  air, 
As  if  she  were  the  caliph's  captive  there, 
A  maiden  at  a  counter  might  be  seen, 


154  SELECTED  POEMS 

Who   walked    and    moved    about,   the   sole   de- 
fender 
Of  the  great  sugar  caliph's  paper  splendor. 

Yes,  you  are  like  a  charming  shepherdess 
Caught  by  the  caliph  to  become  his  slave, 
The  graceful  ways  of  freedom  still  you  have, 
A  sort  of  easy  boyish  happiness; 
And  yet  your  head,  so  meekly  toward  me  leaning, 
Has  to  my  thought  a  mournful  captive's  meaning. 


There  stands  within  a  near-by  room 
A  sofa  that  I  often  sit  in 
To  drink  my  bitter  beer  with  gloom, 
And  there  by  throbs  of  grief  I'm  smitten 
While,  with  self-scorn  made  desperate, 
I  learn  the  penalty  of  fate. 

And  when  she  sees  me  there  distressed, 
A  weary,  sick  and  wounded  man, 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  155 

A  wanderer  from  the  caravan 
Whom  robbers  fall  on  and  molest, 
She  plays  the  good  Samaritan 
As  in  the  Bible  'tis  expressed. 
She  pours  with  charity  courageous 
The  balm  of  laughter  all-contagious 
And  wine  of  sympathetic  glances 
On  the  poor  victim  of  mischances. 

Kind  maiden,  will  you  still  do  so  ? 
'Tis  well  then  in  your  habitation. 
I'm  thirsty,  give  me  consolation; 
To  you,  kind  maiden,  will  I  go. 

IV 

For  the  whole  girl  not  a  penny, 
Not  a  farthing  would  I  pay, 
If  her  glance  would  show  not  any 
Smile,  but  like  a  foe  at  bay 
She  would  fight  as  for  her  due 


i£6  SELECTED  POEMS 

And  would  reckon :    "  Give  me  eight  now, 
That's  a  sum  I  won't  abate  now; 
Come,  you  nice  good  fellow,  you!" 

Not  a  nail,  a  rag,  a  button 

For  the  girl  I'd  offer  there, 

If  in  virtuous  pride  she'd  put  on 

Some  dull,  prudish,  ugly  air; 

Or  her  hue  with  fear  would  deaden, 

Bloodless  at  the  shameful  hint, 

Till  the  cheek  that  once  could  redden 

Lost  its  lovely  tint, 

When  she  heard  me  tell  too  truly 

My  remorse  for  deeds  unruly, 

Sins  that  knew  no  stint. 

When  I  stammer:    "I've  been  wasting 
Myself  sick  for  love's  delight, 
Liquor  too  I'm  always  tasting, 
Night  and  day,  and  day  and  night, 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  157 

In  the  street  I  held  carousal 

Till  from  many  a  loose  proposal 

Women  fled  in  fright,"  — 

She  must  blush  and  be  but  sad,  then, 

Must  but  say:    "Well,  that's  too  bad,  then, 

Are  you  never  really  through 

With  your  girl-craze,  my  nice  lad  then, 

You  dear  fine  good  fellow,  you!" 


v 

Overlook  the  faults  of  which  I've  spoken, 
Please  forget  I'm  drunk  —  and  bald  as  well, 
Only  think  that,  when  a  nut  is  broken, 
You  may  find  a  kernel  in  the  shell. 

Be  an  odalisque  to  fit  my  wishes, 
Leaning  captive  from  her  balcony; 
For  the  balustrade  you  have  your  dishes, 
For  your  marchpane  princeling  —  I  am  he. 


158  SELECTED  POEMS 

Hear  the  cither,  hear  my  song  of  sorrow 
Echoing  from  a  far-off  fountain  clear. 
I'm  disguised,  —  these  robes  I  do  but  borrow;  — 
Girl,  I  am  not  what  I  now  appear, 

But  a  Greek,  —  if  you'd  correct  your  error,  — 
And  Narcissus  is  the  name  I  owe, 
I  was  self-enamoured  in  the  mirror 
Of  a  shadowy  fountain  long  ago. 

This  mad  love  so  violently  charmed  me 
That  I  filled  the  woods  with  my  lament, 
Until  Aphrodite's  power  transformed  me 
To  the  wretch  on  whom  your  smile  is  bent. 

Yes,  you  smile,  your  soul  is  like  my  own,  dear, 
Which  would  weep,  but  smiles  its  grief  instead. 
Here's  the  ladder.     Quick!  let  us  begone,  dear, 
In  the  boat  before  they  guess  we're  fled. 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  159 

VI 

Be  you  blest,  O  tender-hearted  maid, 

Blest  that  you  forgive  me, 

And  from  pain  reprieve  me, 

Though  you  know  the  paltry  part  I've  played. 

You  give  sympathy  to  me,  a  churl, 
Not  as  one  above  me, 
But  as  if  you  love  me, 

From  the  breast  of  a  poor  sinful  girl. 

• 

You  are  wine  to  make  the  weak  man  strong; 

Robes  to  hide  his  shame  in, 

Food  for  him  in  famine, 

When  through  barren  fields  he  limps  along. 

VII 

But  dreams  are  dreams  most  surely, 
And  words  are  merely  air; 
You  sew  away  demurely 
Beside  the  counter  there, 


160  SELECTED  POEMS 

You  watch  the  people  going, 
And  think  mild  thoughts  no  doubt, 
While  flower-garlands  growing 
Beneath  your  hands  trail  out. 

And  I  take  back  my  homely 
Old  face  into  my  den, 
Where  gloomily  and  dumbly 
I  scan  my  face  again. 
A  girl  now,  to  my  seeming, 
Nods  through  the  pupil's  door, 
Within  the  iris  gleaming,  — 
Then  straight  is  seen  no  more. 

But  Ego  stays  the  same  there, 
The  I  that  can  not  vary, 
That  no  one  can  displace, 
Unless  from  heaven  came  there 
A  kind  old-fashioned  fairy 
To  nod  and  rouse  a  flame  there 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  EYES  161 

By  taking  your  sweet  face, 
Her  cheek  with  blushes  burning, 
While  with  a  secret  yearning 
She  longed  for  my  embrace. 
But  since  I'm  doomed  to  grind  out 
Such  lines  as  these  above, 
While  you  are  set  to  find  out 
Your  lifelong  path  of  love,  — 
My  wishes  are  but  phrases 
Compared  with  a  caress, 
Like  flowers  without  vases, 
And  words  quite  meaningless. 


THE  PRAYER-MEETING 

"  Dear  friends,  the  wages  of  sin  is  death,  indeed ; 
His  sin  was  great,  but  prayer  is  strong  at  need. 
Our  brother  Andersson  has  gone  astray, 
And     left  —  poor    youth !  —  the    straight     and 
narrow  way." 

Alas !  poor  slaves  of  sin  are  we ; 
Lord,  keep  us  from  iniquity. 

"Richly  endowed  beyond  all  priests  he  was 

With  heavenly  grace,  —  our  youthful  Barnabas. 

His  gifts  of  exhortation,  more  than  human, 

Roused  many  souls,  especially  of  women. 

Pleasant  as  Joseph  was  he  to  behold, 

And  tempted  too  as  Joseph  was  of  old. 

—  Oh,  my  young  friends,  ye  tread  on  perilous 

ground  !  — 

Yet  thought  we  Andersson  was  strong  and  sound, 
162 


THE  PRAYER-MEETING  163 

And  could  from  devils  win  the  victory; 
But  devils  have  been  mightier  than  he!" 

Oh,  fallen,  fallen  Ichabod, 

How  sin  doth  rage  in  flesh  and  blood ! 

"A  worthy  widow  for  his  wife  we  gave, 
Steadfast  and  not  too  young,  who  well  might  save 
The  young  man  from  the  snares  of  Satan's  guile 
And  fleshly  lures  of  worldliness,  the  while. 
A  silent,  sober  woman,  tried  and  true 
Of  heart  was  she,  a  faithful  watcher  too, 
Who  at  her  post  was  ever  diligent 
And  followed  Andersson  where'er  he  went.  — 
Yet  wisdom  is  but  weakness  here  below, 
As  this  assembly  needeth  not  to  know: 
Our  erring  brother  fled  by  night  away 
With  Fia  Bergman  to  America!" 

Oh,  sin  and  trouble,  griefs  and  fears, 
This  world  is  but  a  vale  of  tears! 


PIOUS  INEPTITUDE 

Though  Samoyeds  have  gods  of  carven  bone, 
And  hoodoo-doctors,  painted  up  to  fright  men, 
Go  scaring  negro  boys  in  Tanganyika,  — 

I  do  not  flout  them. 

But  goblins  clad  in  black  that  come  to  drone 
Into  the  ears  of  European  white  men 
The  priestly  fetish-lore  of  Tanganyika  — 

I  freely  scout  them. 


164 


A  LOVE-SONG 

I  purchased  my  love  for  money, 
Else  ne'er  had  I  known  its  might; 

No  less  did  I  sing  to  the  gay  harp-string 
Right  sweetly  of  love's  delight. 

A  dream,  though  it  soon  be  vanished, 
Is  sweet  when  it  answers  our  will; 

And  Eden  to  him  who  is  banished 
Is  beauteous  Eden  still. 


NOTES 

PAGES  24-31.  MOUNTAIN  TROLLS  and  THE  OLD 
MOUNTAIN  TROLL:  The  Norse  troll  is  properly  a 
sort  of  loathsome  cannibal  giantess.  In  the  second 
poem  certain  human  characteristics  are  subtly  blended 
after  the  manner  of  Browning's  CALIBAN  UPON  SETE- 
BOS. 

PAGE  31.  The  last  line  of  the  Swedish  has  been 
changed  in  the  translation  in  order  to  clarify  the 
meaning. 

PAGE  48  (AN  OLD  ROOM),  line  i,  "Karl-Johan": 
This  is  Bernadotte,  Napoleon's  marshal,  afterwards 
Charles  XIV  of  Sweden,  the  founder  of  the  present 
royal  family. 

PAGE  48,  lines  13-16:  These  are  various  Swedish 
romantic  poets  of  about  1820-50.  Tegner  is  of  course 
the  author  of  the  famous  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  LILIES 
OF  SHARON  was  written  by  Erik  Johann  Stagnelius. 

PAGES  91,  92.  THE  KING'S  MISTRESS:  This  title 
is  an  arbitrary  one  used  by  the  translator  to  combine 
two  poems  which  treat  of  the  same  story.  In  the 
Swedish  the  poems  are  side  by  side,  but  otherwise 
unconnected.  There  seems  to  be  some  doubt  among 
commentators  as  to  whether  Eroding  is  here  idealizing 
an  experience  of  his  own  or  is  merely  sketching  a  tale 
of  the  remote  past;  the  translator  has  preferred  the 

167 


i68  NOTES 

latter  hypothesis,  into  which  the  former  idea  may  be 
read  if  the  reader  so  desires. 

PAGE  107  ("I  WOULD  THAT  I  WERE — "),  line  3, 
"Karma":  Karma,  in  Indian  belief,  is  the  personality 
which  the  soul  builds  by  its  conduct  in  the  various 
incarnations  through  which  it  goes.  The  stanza  has 
been  freely  rendered,  to  follow  the  atmosphere  rather 
than  the  details. 

PAGE  140  ("SEE  WHERE  THE  DREAMER  COMES"): 
Cf.  Genesis  37:  19. 

PAGE  162  (THE  PRAYER-MEETING)  :  The  elder 
evidently  tells  the  story,  and  the  congregation  comes 
in  from  time  to  time  with  a  sympathetic  couplet. 


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